Kiss of Life
by BrothersInArms
Summary: Desperate to control Eragon, Galbatorix hires a mysterious sorceress to ‘train’ the rider into obedience. While Eragon is strong willed, will he be able to defy the witch's comands? Lots of hurt Eragon. Yes, I'm evil. Reviews loved!
1. Prologue

_Hello everyone. This is my first Fanfic (Cheers) and I'm really excited! This idea's been bouncing around my head for a while and I wanted to get it out there. Enjoy, and please, please leave a review on your way out _=)

Prologue

The cold, roughness of her leather boots felt comfortable against her skin. She laced them up with perfectly manicured fingers the color of blood, sporting nails half an inch longer than necessary and sharpened to a cruel point. Once finished with the laces, those fingers ran across her hair as she pulled it into a long, thick braid. The blond twists fell nearly to her leather clad hips.

A sword of black steel was strapped to her belt, its hilt decorated with coiling rivers of red. The sword was specially designed to be nearly as strong and durable as the rider's blades, yet unfortunately, they lacked the original's magic and immense power. _What I would do for a rider's sword-_

The sound of footsteps near the door made her spin around, braid swinging wildly through the air. A smile broke her rosy lips, a cruel, malicious smile that would have caused any strong man to back a step away. However, the man framed in the door remained where he was, hand resting on the hilt of his blood red sword and eyes full of hate.

"Murtagh." She sighed as she strutted up to him until they stood not five inches apart. She looked him up and down flirtatiously, taking in his rugged, travel-worn appearance that suited him so well. Although she did miss the splatters of blood and sweat that had coated his body the last time they had met. She ran a dangerous finger down his jaw line, remembering how it had felt when broken. "Well, it has been too long. And you never came to visit me. Have you not missed me, Murtagh?"

Quicker then she had expected, Murtagh grabbed the hand that was resting on his cheek, his harsh grasp holding it away from his skin. He leaned his head forward so his nose was only an inch from hers. "Don't attempt your magic on me, Witch." He growled through clenched teeth. "I am not here for your own joy."

He threw her hand back before the dreaded blue spark had time to touch his skin. She looked at him proudly with a mixture of surprise and respect. The last time they had seen each other the red rider would never have dared speak to her in such a rancor tone, nor have the courage or strength to hold away her hand.

"And I have not come for your company either." He continued venomously. "I have come with orders from King Galbatorix as to your next assignment."

Poena's eyes light up at that statement. Her fingers twitched with anticipation as more sparks crackled around the tips. Murtagh kept his dark eyes on those fingers at all times, dark pupils catching the bright blue flickers with a look of unease. "Another trainee?" She purred. "Oh, I do hope he is as interesting as you were. Who will it be this time? Another prospective general? A Surdan? An elf would be fun to play with."

Something flickered across the Red Rider's features, as if he wished with all his heart that she would somehow not have asked. The once strong and confident man was suddenly hesitant and he opened and closed his mouth a few times without finding words.

"Come now, Murtagh, tell your Mistress who it-"

"You are _not _my _Mistress!" _ He hissed, though even as he said it something in him told him he was wrong. Was she his Mistress? He was overcome with a sudden desire to please her though, an uncontrollable urge to do everything she says. He forced it down with a clearing of his throat and continued.

"You are to capture and—and train the Blue Rider, Eragon Shadeslayer." He said, voice full of unexplainable pain. He cleared his throat again. "Galbatorix wishes for him to be at the front line of battle in a month's time."

"Another Rider!" She said with glee, advancing once again towards Murtagh. "Oh, I do love training Riders, they are so much fun. It is unfortunate that the aftermath isn't as strong as I would like, but the blue-spark has _such _a great effect on them, wouldn't you say, Murtagh?"

The Red Rider forced himself not to flinch as she placed a seductive hand on his shoulder, pulling herself closer and looking up lustfully into Murtagh's iron-hard eyes. "Eragon is strong." He said in a low and dangerous voice.

"You were strong once, too." Poena replied enticingly.

"I am strong." He corrected her, yet as he finally looked into her eyes his gaze softened and it almost looked as though he were leaning into her.

"Clearly," She said slowly. "You weren't strong enough. Kiss me, Murtagh Morzanson."

And without thinking, without processing her words thoroughly, Murtagh reached down, grabbed her gently behind the neck, and pulled her into a deep kiss. It only lasted a second before Murtagh pulled away viciously, disgust in himself evident in his eyes. "No! You do not control me. Not anymore!"

"Your obvious desire to please me proves you wrong." Poena said with a smile. "You still can't keep the craving at bay, it is impossible to do so and you are aware of that. I will always and forever be your mistress, Murtagh, for I'm the one that trained you. Remember that."

She turned away from the rider and continued to prepare herself for the day. "Now get gone, Murtagh." He tone was suddenly no longer seductive, but harsh. "I have my orders, there's no need to play Kings Messenger anymore."

Murtagh nodded his head, fighting with all his might against the urge to say 'of course' or 'yes, Mistress', and turned out the door. As he left, he couldn't stop the whisper that made it passed his lips. "Eragon will not fall to you."

Poena smiled violently and the pale blue sparks jumped across her fingers again. "Oh, yes he will." She said to herself. "The younger son of Morzan doesn't stand a chance."

_TBC_

_Let me know what you think and if I should continue it. Reviews are LOVED! Till next time…_


	2. The Sorceress

_Hey everyone! Sorry for the late update, but finals are quickly arriving and my little brain can only handle so much at a time. Anyway, I hope you enjoy chapter 2._

_Holly_

"Roran, watch where you're stepping!"

Roran quickly glanced down at his boots, covered in mud and bits of grass, but the left heel had already sunken deep into one of the surrounding gopher holes. His balance was immediately thrown off and he automatically tossed his arms out to steady himself, an unwise move considering he was attempting to fight off a Dragon Rider. However, his attempt to steady himself proved futile as he began to fall backwards, landing heavily on his back and driving out all oxygen from his lungs. The blue sky flashed different colors, green, red, yellow, and purple, before his eyes as he tried to focus his gaze.

Something embarrassingly familiar nudged his chin and forced him to look cross-eyed up at the victor. There Eragon stood in a perfect stance, the tip of the stick resting at his cousin's throat and a smile across his feline-like face. "Dead" He whispered before lowering the makeshift sword to his side and holding out a hand. With a shaky laugh, Roran took the hand and was hoisted back to his feet.

He looked down at his clothes, now completely covered in dust and grass, and threw his hands up. "Forget it, Eragon. I'm never going to master the sword." He tossed his stick away and walked towards their bags, a slight limp in his step. He rummaged through the bag's contents before pulling out his water skin and taking a long guzzle.

"Nonsense, Roran." Said Eragon, throwing aside his stick as well. "You're not half as bad as you think, you just get distracted easily. You'll be an exceptional swordsman with enough practice."

"And about a thousand bruises, I suppose." Roran winced as he settled himself down against the tree trunk. Eragon laughed to himself as he realized Roran had failed to inflict so much as a bump on his skin since they had begun to fight nearly two hours ago.

_Be kind, Eragon. _Saphira's voice echoed inside his head. _Remember, you once complained to Brom upon the same subject. And I must say, you weren't exactly the master swordsman to begin with either._

_Thank you, Saphira._ He replied sarcastically. Roran, who had been in the process of passing his cousin the water skin, recognized that blank, unfocused look plastered to Eragon's face as he communicated with his dragon. With a shrug, he retracted his arm and took another swig of the water before leaning back against the tree and closing his tired eyes. _Where are you, anyway?_

A sudden image of a peaceful looking meadow flashed across Eragon's mind. Tree's much like the one he was leaning against lined the sides of the field; tall, towering pines that seemed to brush against the sky.

_There was a family of deer lunching on the grass. I let the doe and young fawn go, but the buck was not so lucky. _

_Just be sure you don't kill too many, or else there won't be any left to repopulate next year. _Eragon was referring to his dragon's growing appetite which seemed to be bottomless on good days. If people had thought Saphira was large before, she was now nearing twice the size she had been when arriving in Surda. Eragon was starting to believe she would never stop growing.

The Rider glanced over at his cousin, whose eyes were no longer attempting to stay open as he began to dose off. "Roran, we should probably be returning to Melian soon."

"Hmm…." Was Roran's reply, eyes still closed as he drifted away from reality. Eragon stretched out against his own tree trunk and stifled a huge yawn. It would be nice to take a nap, to escape from everything for just a small while. Faintly, in the back of his head, a voice was reminding him that while they had conquered the city of Melian, they were still in Empire territory, and therefore in danger of being seen. But the peacefulness of the clearing and the exhaustion from the fencing lesson overtook him and he closed his eyes, listening to the sound of chirping birds, the wind rustling in the leaves, and the harsh shouts of men.

His eyes shot open, every sense suddenly alert as his heart began to pound. That sound was not right at all. They were in the middle of a dense forest, far from Melian or any other town or village. They had even ventured quite a ways from the main and side roads that weaved among the trees. There should not be a soul in sight, and no voice close enough to be heard.

The shout was heard again, this time louder and closer then before. In one fluid motion, Eragon leapt to his feet and drew Brisingr from its sheath on his hip. Roran cracked his eyes open, frowning drearily at his younger cousin. "What is it?"

"Be quiet. Someone's coming." Eragon strained his ears, muscles flexing around the hilt of his sapphire sword. His eyes widened as he was suddenly able to hear footsteps. Many footsteps. "No, not some_one. _There are about a dozen of them."

Roran quickly jumped to his feet, momentarily forgetting the aches and pains that had filled his body not five minutes ago, and pulled out his trusty hammer. "Do you think it could just be messengers coming to bring you to Nasuada?"

Another yell answered his question, and this time Eragon was able to hear the words attached to the voice. "Over here, My Lady! The Rider's this way!" The voice was clearly far from friendly, but the shout that replied was colder then ice and as venomous as a snake. "Keep them alive, Captain. But leave the Rider to me."

Eragon and Roran exchanged a nervous glance when suddenly a soldier, dressed in the black and red uniform of the Empire, broke through the trees and charged at them, sword raised and thirsty for blood. Eragon raised Brisingr in response and leapt forward, catching the soldier's blade as it swung down.

"Eragon, behind you!" He spun around just in time to block the blow from another man that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. More soldiers were pouring in on all sides, surrounding and trapping the two at the center of the clearing. Roran swung his hammer around with the professional air and confidence he had lacked with the sword, taking down soldier after soldier. Brisingr was quickly stained red by the blood it had already spilt and Eragon continued to slash and cut at the on-coming men, all of whom were obviously professionally trained yet were still no match for a Rider. Behind him, Roran was still busy struggling with two soldiers at once, though it seemed he was going to gain the upper hand soon. But more soldiers were coming from the trees, more then Eragon had earlier anticipated. _Saphira! Where are you? We're being atta-_

His attention was quickly adverted by the sudden appearance of a woman, clad in all red leather with a black sword attached to her side. She was surrounded by three other soldiers, all standing a good four feet away from the blue sparks dancing across her finger tips. There was something about her that drew his attention away from everything else, all of which melted into the background as just blurred motions and muffled noises. He could _feel _the magic radiating from her body, strong in ways and far more sinister then that of the elves.

With a snarl, he readjusted his hold on the sword and shouted "Brisingr!" The blade suddenly erupted into violent flames, dancing and cackling at the prospect of cutting through the woman's magic.

To his surprise, the woman smiled, showing off blindingly white teeth with canines filed into sharp points. She raised her hand, palm forward, as if to tell his to halt. Brisingr's hilt felt warm beneath Eragon's hands, and the warmth slowly turned to an uncomfortable heat, and then to unbearable. The flames along the blade's edge began to disappear and as Eragon looked down the hilt turn a deep shade of red, like iron left too long in the fire. He could feel is scorching his skin and automatically dropped the sword, gasping in pain and surprise.

"Eragon!" He heard Roran scream behind him and, using his peripheral vision, saw the sad result of his cousin's momentary distraction. One of the soldiers managed to knock the hammer from his hand while another jammed the hilt of his sword into Roran's stomach. He fell to his knees, clutching his jut as all air left his lungs.

"Roran!" Eragon call out to his cousin, but he was soon forced to return his attention to the woman as two soldiers came forward, grabbed his shoulders, and pushed him roughly to his knees. He tried to strain against the hands holding him down and stand back up, but a sword was placed against his throat and had already produced a thin trail of blood.

The woman was now standing directly over him, eyes malicious and smile cruel. She reached out with her hand, blue sparks flickering between her long fingers, and the soldiers suddenly released their hold on the Rider. Very slowly and theatrically, the woman pressed the tip of her finger softly against the skin of his neck.

Absolute agony enveloped him. It was as if rivers of fire had replaced his veins, carrying the pain throughout his entire body. Distantly, Eragon was aware he was screaming and he knew he was thrashing around violently, yet he could not pull himself away from her touch.

After several moments, which felt more like several years to the young Rider, the woman released her magic on his body and he fell, unconsciously, to the floor.

Roran stared at the motionless body of his cousin with utmost horror. Anger boiled within his stomach as the lurid woman smirked down at the fallen Rider and moved once again to touch his neck with a painted forefinger. "Don't touch him!" Roran snarled as he struggled against the hands of the soldiers.

For the first time the girl looked directly at him, her blue eyes dancing with amusement at his anxiety. "Easy, handsome, I am only checking that your Rider is still alive."

_Oh, gods, he had better be. _Roran prayed as the woman rested her fingers against the major vein on his throat, looking for a pulse. It eased Roran's worries to see that the blue sparks had vanished and his cousin was no longer thrashing at her touch.

The woman straightened up and motioned towards one of the remaining soldiers who had not fallen at the end of Eragon's sword or Roran's hammer. "You, tie him up securely. I don't want his fingers to be able to so much as wiggle, am I clear?" The soldier quickly bowed his head, pulled out a length of strong looking rope, and went to work fastening together the Rider's limp arms.

"So, rebel," The woman leered as she turned her attention once again to the kneeling Roran. "Why don't you tell me your name now."

For a moment, Roran considered spitting on her leather boots and refusing to speak, but the dagger resting on his neck and the helplessness of his cousin's feeble form convinced him otherwise.

"Quickly, traitor, before that oversized lizard returns." She snapped. "If I catch so much as a glimpse of blue scales in the sky both your Rider and dragon will die right here and now."

Something in her eyes told him she would be true to her word should Saphira appear. "Roran." He said thickly through clenched teeth. "Roran Stronghammer."

"Well, Stronghammer," She said, leaning down so her face was not six inches from his. "I'm going to give you a little task, and we shall see if rebel scum such as yourself can handle carrying out a small chore. I want you to go to your leader, Nasuada, and tell her that the sorceress Poena has taken her precious savior in the name of the King, and that he will be _trained _by my hand. Tell her to expect to see her Rider again at the head of the Empire's regiment as they crush the pathetic resistance she has created. Understand, traitor?"

The soldiers viciously yanked Roran to his feet at that moment and pushed him off into the known direction of Melian. He took one last look at his bound unconscious cousin, but on seeing Poena's fingers light up once again with sparks Roran tore his gaze away and sprinted into the trees.

"Should we follow 'im, M' Lady?" One of the soldiers asked.

Poena watched the retreating form of the Varden soldier before responding coolly, "No, we have what we came for."

TBC

_Ta-Da! So, yes, that is the end of chapter 2. Please, please, please leave me a review on your way out!! Till next time…_


	3. In the Lioness' Lair

_Bad News: My computer crashed and I lost _all _of my documents and pictures and all that jazz, including my nearly finished copy of this chapter, which I then had to rewrite =(_

_Good News: School is finally over so now I have three months of writing fun ahead of me!!_

_Random News: I just came into possession of an old-fashion quill and a bottle of ink! For those of you who don't know me, this makes me very excited. For those of you who DO know me… be warned! My excitement level has now reached 11 out of 15!_

_**Important **__News- I thought I had mentioned this at the beginning of the first chapter, but apparently in my excitement to publish my first story on fanfiction I forgot to mention it. Kiss of Life is my own version of Terry Goodkind's ideas for The Sword of Truth (aka Legend of the Seeker on TV). I thought it would make an interesting Eragon fanfiction, so I'm trying it on for size along with a few tweaks and twists of my own. Thanks to EmeraldArya for point out my mistake! _

It wasn't the feeling of his arms being torn roughly from their sockets that first awoke him, nor was it the aching soreness that filled his body from head to toe. No, it was the feeling of absolute and complete hollowness that clogged his mind, as if a part of him was missing or injured beyond repair, and for once he was painfully, agonizingly alone.

But it _was _the unbearable pain in his shoulders that finally triggered his lethargic brain into action. With a jerk, Eragon pulled his heavy eyelids open and immediately closed them again, wincing at the sudden light that attacked his cornea.

_What the-? Oh, what happened now?_

He winced again as his muscles screamed in protest at the slight movement of lifting his head and slowing attempted to open his eyes again. As far as he could tell, he was in a small circular room with a high ceiling, the walls and floors all made of the same red stone that failed to hide the sprinkles of blood from his overly-observant eyes.

_Blood…Not a good sign._

His shoulders wailed as the Rider pulled his head up to examine his suspended arms. No wonder his shoulders felt as though they were being pulled off. He looked down at his body. His chest was bare and bruised, but for some reason his scabbard and sword were still attached at his hip, Brisingr's hilt just barely visible at his side. The pain in his shoulders was clearly due to the fact that his toes were a good foot and a half off the ground and his wrists were securely cuffed in strong, heavy looking shackles attached to strong, heavy looking chains connected to a strong, heavy looking metal beam in the ceiling. In a vein attempt, Eragon tested the strength of the chains, pulling at them with the little remaining strength in his body. He hadn't expected much of a change; the only result being more pain in his shoulders and chest.

A violent fit of coughs suddenly overtook him. This did nothing to ease the pain in his chest; quite the opposite, actually. His throat felt raw and hoarse after the convulsions subsided and he wondered vaguely how long it had been since he had last had a drink of water.

_Saphira? Saphira, where are you? _He said between miniature coughs. There was no response. Now he understood why he felt so empty, so vulnerable. Whoever had strung him up in the center of this room must be doing something to block their connection. Unless…

_No. _Eragon told himself sternly, shaking his head to rid himself of the thought. He wasn't even going to think about that option. If she were, he would know. He would feel it more deeply then any sword of arrow could ever reach.

Somewhere behind him a door opened, its hinges creaking and its frame scraping across the stone floor. He tried to tilt his head so he could see who had arrived, but he couldn't see around his suspended arms. Suddenly, something long and sharp pressed against his back, just between the shoulder blades. Automatically Eragon arched his spine away from the contact, but of course could not get very far. Whatever it was was now making its way across his back, over his side, and onto his chest, stopping just above his heart. Now he could see the long, sharp object was a vibrantly red colored fingernail, filed to an unnecessary point.

Following the finger up a leather clad arm, Eragon raised his eyes to the woman's face; slim, high cheek-boned, and gloating. He recognized that overly-confident smile from the clearing where he had been teaching Roran how to fence. His eyes narrowed as he remembered the agonizing pain she had put him through with just a touch of her finger and no words to form a spell. That was magic beyond him, and admittedly magic he did not want to mess around with.

The woman smiled even wider and stepped back to pull the glove off her other hand. "You will call me Mistress Poena." She said silkily as she tossed her glove onto a table nearby. "And what is your name?"

"Where is my dragon?"

The words were barely out of Eragon's mouth when the back of her hand smashed into his cheek. His head snapped to the side and he tasted the coppery flavor of blood from where his chapped lip had split.

"I asked you, Shadeslayer, what your name is?" He voice was no longer glossy and smooth, but harsh and commanding.

Eragon furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "Well, clearly you already know my name, so why bother asking for it?"

The smile jumped back onto her features, seductive and sinister at the same time. She moved closer to the Rider until she had to look up to see his face; He was nearly a whole head taller then her from where he hung. "I asked for it, Eragon, because I wished to show you a little kindness, a little courtesy, upon our first proper meeting. Trust me, you won't be getting much civility such as this for quite a long time after we begin."

"Begin what?" Eragon asked, attempting to keep the dread from his voice by adding as much hostility to it as possible.

"Your training." Poena breathed softly in his ear. Her breath was warm against his skin, yet an underlying layer of coldness could be felt as well, breaking through its comforting façade. She placed her hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him away from her, causing his to swing painfully at the end of the chains. She turned from him, playing oblivious to his sudden gasp of surprised hurt.

"His majesty, King Galbatorix," She continued. "Has asked me to turn you into the perfect little Rider so that you may one day be granted the honor of leading his troops in his endless search for serenity in his realm."

Eragon snorted at this, unable to keep the laughter at bay. "Good luck with that, for I will never serve under Galbatorix."

"Really?" Poena raised her eyebrows at him. "Is that so? Are you really so close-minded that you can't even consider the possibility that that old man has brainwashed you into believing Galbatorix to be the horrible villain of your epic tale? Have you ever stopped to reflect on the prospect that this may be your chance to help bring peace to Alagaesia? That is what you want, isn't it?"

Eragon said nothing but glared at her for a moment, unwilling to give an answer. Of course he wanted peace, that is the main reason he fights so firmly for the people of Surda and the Varden. However, joining Galbatorix's cause was the furthest thing from fighting to gain peace. If he said yes to her final question, would he be saying yes to everything before that as well?

"The days of Galbatorix's reign of terror are numbered." He finally growled.

Poena laughed, throwing back her head and cackling at the ceiling. "By who?" She managed to gasp out after her fit of laughter. "A farm boy strung up by his wrists in the Lioness' Lair?"

"Where is Saphira?" He demanded again through clenched teeth. Poena sighed and began to walk around Eragon until he could not see her anymore, an uncomfortable feeling.

"Saphira, your dragon, is probably still lying alone in some field, too weak to carry on. You should have seen it; I shot her right out of the sky. _Bang!_" She walked back around him so he could see her and pointed her thumb and forefinger at the opposite wall. A blue jet of light sprang from its tip and collided with the wall, leaving a dark burn mark on its red surface. Eragon's heart was beginning to beat at an unhealthy pace, fear and dread for his dragon blocking out any other thought in his mind.

Poena turned with a sickeningly amused smile on her face at his evident horror. "Don't worry, Rider, she will live. I used just enough firepower to keep her off our tail for a while. Which reminds me, you won't be needing this for a while either." She wrapped her hand around Brisingr's hilt and pulled it slowly from the sheath. After examining its dazzlingly blue features for a moment she said softly and endearingly, "She is beautiful, isn't she? The latest and greatest of Rhunon's creations, if you ask me."

"I wouldn't grow too fond of it if I were you." Eragon hissed, disgusted that she was even touching his sword. Again, the sorceress raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at him, but ignored him for the time being. Slowly, she walked across the room and placed the sword on another table stacked with weapons and other arms.

"On the contrary, I believe I'll be getting to know this sword very well during our training time together."

"I told you before," Eragon growled. "No one is going to be training me."

At this, Poena laughed. She slithered up close to him like a poisonous snake and once again ran her hand over his chest. "Did you not feel my magic touch back in that clearing?"

Eragon caught a glimpse of something blue bounce forth from her fingers before sudden agony filled him again. His blood turned to fire and he could not hold back the bloodcurdling scream that tore from his mouth. The chains overhead clanked loudly as the Rider tried to twist away from the witches touch. _I'm dying. _He managed to think through the pain. Nothing else could feel like this. Nothing else could hurt this badly.

And the finally, just after he thought he could take no more, Poena raised her finger from his skin. Eragon choked and gasped as he swung helplessly on the end of his chains, the pain slowly, but not completely, beginning to leave his body.

"You can't fight the pain, Eragon, and the hard you do the more powerful the magic will become. It feeds off your struggling until there is not a shred of defiance within you. And when you reach that point," She said as she came closer once again, their noses nearly touching. "You will do anything to please me. And nothing would please me more then to see you stand beside our noble King at the forefront of the battlefield and lead his valiant troops in putting down that pathetically misguided excuse of a rebellion. Nothing would bring me more pleasure then to watch you slay your leader, Nasuada, in your final act to fealty to our King, and betrayal to your friends."

Eragon finally opened his eyes again as nausea rose inside him. He fought down the bile that threatened to come with a final swallow and gasped, "No. You see that sword?" His eyes flitted over to where Brisingr sat atop the pile of confiscated weapons. "I'm going to take that sword, and I'm going to drive it through Galbatorix's black heart. And then, as your king lies dead at my feet, I'll turn the blade on you."

There was silence for a moment after his words, for Eragon could not go on. He could barely breath, let alone form coherent sentences. Poena raised herself on her toes and whispered seductively into his ear. "Oh, I do enjoy a challenge. Shall we begin?"

And again she pressed her finger into the muscle just below Eragon's rib cage, allowing the magic to flow from her twisted heart, down her arm, and into the body of her captive. And this time, despite her prisoner's yells and writhing, she held it there much longer than before.

TBC

_I've already started on chapter 4, so it shouldn't be too long before my next update. I really am sorry this one took so long! Let me know if you all still want me to continue by leaving me a review on your way out! Till next time…_


	4. Uncontrolled Impulse

_Hello again! This chapter took me longer then I thought it would to write, and I apologize for that. The next chapter should be easier, and therefore quicker to post. Anyway, enjoy chapter four and leave me a review on your way out =)_

After the attack and victory at the city of Melian at the hands of the Varden, which took place almost immediately after the siege of Feinster, the security along the city's walls was extended even beyond what the ever-ready soldiers of the Empire had created. Sixty archers lined the topmost ramparts with their bows ready and quivers equipped. Ten horsemen stood behind the fortified gates, ready to ride out to greet and question any traveler coming their way and to warn the additional cavalry should any threat be posed.

So far, the large street was silent. The road that led north and further into the belly of the Empire was thoroughly deserted and calm. The guards along the battlements were steadily growing weary and their eyes were exhausted from staring at the same stretch of abandoned road, but they remained watchful for any questionable movement below and occasionally found their eyes darting nervously to the sky, searching with anxiety for a sudden blur of red.

Virgilio, a young yet determined soldier who had just joined the Varden after the Battle of the Burning Plains, leaned heavily against the stone barriers of the wall, his feet unaccustomed to such long hours of remaining stationary on the uncomfortable footing. His gaze slowly began to meander away from the road, as ones eyes do when their mind is tired and easily distracted.

The distraction was caused by a small bird that had landed near the large dirt road, pecking momentarily at the ground before taking off into the sky again. Virgilio followed the birds flight across the sun and into a swarm of dense trees that opened out onto the road off to the left of the gate. The bird was then lost to the forest of pines and oaks, but Virgilio had seen something else that the other guards had failed to notice as they endlessly watched the road. No one was paying the slightest attention to the edge of the trees, where anyone could just step out of the forest and attack the city. Just like someone was stepping out from behind the trees now.

He could not see properly from such a distance, but it seemed to be a lone man, running and stumbling out of the line of the woods straight towards the gates. Virgilio stood up quickly, heart racing at his discovery as he spun in search of his captain.

"Captain!" He called out with his slightly higher then necessary voice. "There's a man along the border of the trees, just over there!" He pointed in the traveler's way and the captain, who had been walking along the Southern wall, tuned sharply in that direction. Quick as a cat, he jumped down from the ramparts to where the horsemen stood, suddenly alert to the calls from above. The horses pranced on nervous feet as they felt their riders stiffen on their backs.

"Okay men, there is only one lone man, so I'll only be sending three of you out. Greet him and ask what his business in Melian is, but make it clear no imprudence will be tolerated. Celerit, Robur, and Carn, mount up and be quick through the gates."

The lanky magician looked slightly stunned at being told to ride out, for he was clearly not the greatest warrior and his magic was average even to the Du Vrangr Gata standards. But, realizing he was the only magician in the ranks at the moment, he mounted his horse without question and followed Robur's bay charger out the gates.

The three riders closed the space between themselves and the man quickly and it was Celerit who reached him first, drawing his sword and resting it threateningly across his lap. "Greetings. What be your business here, stranger?" He said none too friendly.

The dirt and grass-stain covered man, who had been running flat out in the direction of the gates, slowed to a halt and doubled over, desperate to catch his breath. Carn pulled up the rear of the greeting party, reined his horse beside the traveler, and looked down at him thoughtfully. Then the man raised his head and with a sigh Carn recognized him.

"Stand down." He said strongly, dismounting his brown and white mare. "It's only Roran Stronghammer. Go back to the captain and tell him everything is alright. It looks like Stronghammer is in the need to catch his breath."

The two riders turned their horses on their heals and galloped back to the city. Carn turned to his winded friend and offered him a smile. "It looks as though someone is slightly out of shape." He said with a laugh.

Roran did not return his smile, but looked straight and terrified into the magician's eyes. "Carn, give me your horse." He demanded as he held his hands out for the reins. However, he did not had the reins over immediately and looked as though he were about to ask questions, so Roran went on. "I must see Nasuada this instant; it's a matter of life and death! I've been running through the trees for an hour and a half now, I won't make it another mile to the gates."

Carn raised his eyebrows at his friend's urgency, but finally handed the reins over. "Roran, you sound terrified. What happened?"

Roran hesitated at the question, his foot in the stirrup and ready to boost himself into the saddle. He bit his lip and, with a grunt, threw his leg over the horses back.

"I thought I saw you ride out with Shadeslayer and Saphira earlier." He fished for a response. "How come they did not return with you?"

Glancing down at his friend and fighting partner, Roran shook his head and repeated, "I _must _speak to Nasuada." And he reeled the horse around, galloping off towards the city gates and leaving Carn standing alone to come to the horrifying realization himself.

* * *

An hour later, two guards dragged the semi-conscious Rider down the halls of the Lioness' Lair, holding tightly to his arms as he stumbled and tripped over the uneven stones under foot. Occasionally they would hear a soft moan escape the boy's lips if any sudden movement jolted his aching body, but they ignored his discomfort. They had been trained to be emotionless.

Eragon tried in vain to regain his balance and return to his feet, but his knees did not seem to want to hold his weight and the guards marched him on tirelessly. He despised the idea of being swept across the floor like a broom, collecting scrapes and bruises instead of dust where his knees would hit the ground.

When they reached the assigned cell, the guard took out a jangling set of heavy keys and unlocked the door, shoving Eragon unceremoniously inside. He stumbled clumsily, throwing out his hands to break the inevitable fall. The second guard grabbed him roughly by the hair and pulled him to his feet before thrusting the boy towards the wall where another set of chains and cuffs awaited him.

Eragon struggled absentmindedly, knowing but not wanting to accept that no matter what he did, those manacles would soon be snapped around his wrists. And sure enough, a moment later the cold metal was locked in place, pinning Eragon's arms to the wall with just enough slack to allow him to be able to sit down.

His legs soon gave out on him again and he collapsed to the ground, chains rattling as they pulled painfully one his arms. Eragon held in the gasp by biting his lower lip and forcing himself to breathe deeply through his nose. Another guard had entered the cell, this one holding a tray of meager food and a mug of water which he placed on a nearby table, far out of Eragon's restricted reach. Eragon watched the guard, stunned, as he just turned around and left, not looking at the Rider.

His throat was parched and he could tell he was close to major dehydration, but no matter how he twisted and pulled at the chains, he could not get his fingers within three feet of the table.

"Here, let me help you with that."

The voice came forth from one of the shadowed corners where Eragon had not noticed the slumped form resting against the wall. The figure rose and stepped into the light, revealing a boy, not much older then fourteen perhaps, with pale white skin and many scars along his hands and face. To Eragon's surprise, the boy had on no restraints; no manacles pinning his wrists to the wall or even a cuff around his ankle. It was clear, though, that the slight limp he walked with would make escape a rather unlikely plan.

The boy took the glass of water, knelt down beside Eragon, and gently tipped the contents into the Rider's mouth. Eragon drank greedily, savoring the waters surprisingly refreshing taste as it slid down his throat. With half the glass gone, the boy set the cup back down on the table. "Thank you." Eragon finally managed to say as his throat stopped its severe itching.

The boy nodded, running a hand through his matted black hair. "I know what it's like to come back from a session with her to find a water glass sitting tantalizingly out of reach." He grabbed the piece of bread from the tray and tore it in half, biting hungrily at his slice. "My names Nikael."

"I'm Eragon." The boy nodded again, a sad look in his eyes.

"I know. I heard talk they were bringing in another Rider. Strange- when I first came here I hadn't even heard of a living Rider, and now I've been cell mates with two of them." He looked down at the floor as he said that, as if not wanting to catch the eye of the other.

Eragon stared at the boy, not fully understanding what he was saying. "Wait, there was another Rider here?"

"Yes, Murtagh was also 'trained' by Mistress Poena." Nikael looked longingly towards the door to the cell and Eragon followed his gaze. Amazingly, the door had been left open; not just unlocked but fully ajar. With a quick gasp, Eragon snapped his head back to Nikael, half expecting him to dash out the open door into freedom.

Catching his look, Nikael laughed at the Rider before turning away. "No, I can't leave. I won't."

"What do you mean?" Eragon tried to wrap his mind around the madness of not at least taking the chance to escape. It was clear the boy had been beaten severely, so what more could they possibly do to him if he were to get caught? "Why won't you?"

"Because he's practically family now, aren't you Nikael?"

The boy suddenly dropped his half eaten piece of bread and spun around to face the new arrival as Eragon shifted his gaze over to the owner of that dangerously familiar voice. He hadn't even heard her coming, but there she stood, red leather splattered with his own blood and a hungry, amused look in her blue eyes.

Immediately, Nikael relaxed, a strange look in his previously dead gaze as if he had just seen something beautiful, loving, and enchanting beyond words. He fell to his knees before Poena and sobbed, "Mistress!" as he crawled towards her, pathetically reaching out to embrace her lower leg. "Mistress, where have you been? It's been so long!"

"Yes, Nikael," She said softly as if talking to a child while her dangerous fingers combed with mock affection through his hair. Her eyes found Eragon's as she spoke to the younger boy. "two weeks is a rather long break from your training. Tell me, how long have you been in training with me, Nikael?"

His response was quick and precise, as if he had counted ever waking hour he had been within these walls. "Four months, two weeks, and three days, Mistress."

"Interesting." With a savage movement, Poena tore her leg from the boy's grip, knocking him to the ground. "Eragon, would you like to see what happens to those who undergo training for four months?"

_No._ Eragon said to himself, but kept his mouth tightly shut, jaw set and glare steady. She took his silence as a _yes _and smiled viciously. She drew from her belt a wickedly sharp dagger and as she turn to Nikael, who was still laying on the ground, Eragon took an audible inhale, not wishing to be forced to watch this young boy's death.

But the witch instead knelt down beside the boy and handed him the knife, which he took with a confused look. "Nikael," She said slowly so he would not miss a word. "Would you do me a favor? It would please me so very much-" She paused to glance at Eragon before continuing. "If you would cut off your finger for me."

The boy looked at her with large brown eyes and then down at the knife. Half of Eragon begged the boy to stab that disturbed sorceress through the chest, but the other half of him knew he hadn't even considered it. That look in those hurt, innocent eyes told it too plainly that he would do anything she asks. Anything.

"Of course, Mistress." And he turned to the table, placing his left hand palm down on the surface, five fingers spread apart, and raising the dagger above his head with a perfectly steady grip. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before bringing the knife purposely downward.

Eragon winced and drew back as far as he could into the wall as steel hit wood, cutting cleanly through skin and bone. Nikael barely made a sound, only a short, soft sob as he look down at his hand, four fingered and bloody. He turned back to Poena, a smile on his lips as a single tear fell down his cheek, but her face was cold as stone.

"Take him to the Interium." She snapped at a guard who had suddenly appeared in the doorway. The guard dragged Nikael to his feet and marched him out the door as Poena continued to instruct them. "Prepare him to be killed. I want to be able to just come and get it over with."

Eragon couldn't remain quiet anymore, wouldn't sit there silently and watch the poor boy be dragged away to his death. Without truly thinking he burst out "What, you are going to have him killed for doing exactly what you asked of him?!"

Poena turned slowly to him, a twinkle in her eyes that showed she enjoyed this far too much. "Do not try to sound like you understand yet, Rider, but you will soon. I am not having little Nikael killed for obeying me. I am having him killed for that brief moment of hesitance, for that single tear he let leak. He was not strong enough to do as I asked and I do not allow weakness in my midst.

"And now you are probably wondering why in Alagaesia I had you see that disgusting display. I will tell you: That boy, Nikael, has been with us for four months now. If I am able to convince him after only four months of _minor_ training to cut off his own appendage, what will I be able to make you do after one month of _intense_ training? Possibly swear your undying loyalty to King Galbatorix and his Empire?" She smiled down at his with savage pleasure as she ran a finger down his cheek. The Rider willed himself not to flinch, not to show his discomfort at having her fingers make contact with his skin, but she could sense it in the way he averted his eyes, trying not to make his fear visible.

After a sharp slap on the cheek, Poena turned back to the door, taking out a ring of keys. "Good night, Shadeslayer. I hope you sleep well." She said with a tone of silky poison. "You will need you rest, for tomorrow is when the _real _training begins."

And the door slammed shut behind her, the lock clicking loudly into place.

TBC

_I must say, I'm not a huge fan of how this chapter turned out. Please tell me what you think so I know if I'm just being my usual, overly-critical self or if someone spiked my drink. Again, I apologize for the long gap between posts, but hopefully with my new computer I'll be able to update faster. Until next time..._


	5. From Bad to Worse

_Oh, you've go to love those surprise vacations your parental units throw at you. And unfortunately there is no internet connection in the Costa Rican rainforest. I apologize for the lateness of this chapter, but to make up for it I made it slightly longer then usual. Enjoy! And thanks to all those reviewers out there!! It sure make writing this a whole lot easier when I know people don't hate it! _

They came for him far too early the next day, shaking him from his fitful sleep with unnecessary force and dragging him out the cell door before his exhausted mind had fully woken. His hands were bound in front of him with irons that dug deep into his skin and cut the circulation off from his fingertips. His feet still felt heavy, but he no longer had the need to lean on the guard to stay upright as they marched through the corridors. Left. Right. Up a flight of stairs. Left. Left again. Right. _Wait, what was the last direction? _

His mental clock told him it should be early in the morning, but the halls were smoldering hot and each time he passed a window he was assaulted by a blast of heat and a blindingly white light that looked far too bright to just be the sun. The ground and sky were the same vivid yellow as far as Eragon could see; no greens or blues or browns. Nothing he could use to place where in Alagaesia he could possibly be.

They soon reached another door, this one with the same heavy, strong metal look as the one to his cell, yet it had no window in the center. The first guard knocked once on the door before shouldering the heavy metal open. Eragon was instantly blinded by the brightness that attacked his eyes as soon as the door opened and he tried to raise his bound hands up to shield himself from the light. The guards shoved him forward and he stumbled but thankfully this time managed to stay on his feet.

It didn't last very long. As soon as his feet were over the threshold the door was slammed shut and locked. And once the door was shut, unimaginable pain erupted between his shoulder blades, driving him to his knees. He had told himself the entire way from his cell to this room that no matter what, he would not scream. He broke that promise already.

The pain ceased and Eragon threw out his hands to catch himself as he fell forward. Red leather boots stepped into his field of vision as Poena's voice barked "Get up, Rider!"

When he did not immediately react Poena lifted her foot and rammed the toe of the boot into his side. Something made a loud cracking sound and suddenly it was very hard for Eragon to breathe properly without a stabbing pain near his ribs. He landed on his back and all the air shot out of his lungs at once. He gasped for breathe but there didn't seem to be enough air in the room anymore.

Fingers wrapped around Eragon's brown hair, pulling his savagely back to his feet and tossing him face first into the nearest wall. He was held there by a strong, slender hand on his shoulder and saw the blue spark light up her fingers just in time. Gritting his teeth together until they hurt, Eragon repeated to himself _I will not scream. I will not make a sound. _

He stayed true to the first half of his promise and only allowed a faint groan to escape his lips as the sparks yet again attacked his skin, causing rivers of fire to course through his body. When he was sure he wouldn't be able to hold it in any longer the pain stopped. He could feel Poena still holding him against the wall so hard his nose was starting to feel bruised, and she was leaning closer. Her cheek brushed his and he instinctively tried to jerk away.

"I told you to get up." She growled in his ear. "Why did you not obey your mistress?"

"Because you are not my mistress." He snarled back, knowing but not caring that the answer was not what she wanted to hear and would most likely just bring him more pain. He tried to shift his weight unnoticeably from his left leg to the right, which proved to be a difficult task when pinned to the wall by a murderous witch.

"Well, I wouldn't be so sure of th-" She was cut off suddenly by Eragon's elbow preparing to strike her on the chest, but she was much quicker than the tired Rider's arm. She grabbed his upper arm and rammed the appendage harshly back into the wall, hearing the satisfying _crack _of his wrist breaking under the impact.

Eragon stifled a cry and focused intently on executing his plan properly. His elbow had done exactly as he had hoped in distracting Poena long enough for his to wrap his left leg unnoticed around hers. Still gritting his teeth, he kicked out hard to the side and felt Poena suddenly loose her balance. She released her hold on his arm and shoulder and both Rider and sorceress fell to the floor, Eragon twisting to land on his less injured side.

Once again, the air was forced out of his lungs, but he didn't linger on the ground to try to regain it. He rolled over once, ignoring the stabbing feeling as his broken rib brushed against the stone floor, and jumped up to his feet. Poena was already standing three feet away, a vicious look in her eyes which reflected the dancing blue sparks on her fingers. They stared at each other for a moment before Poena lunged, throwing out her hand as the spark left her fingers and flew through the air. Eragon only had a moment to duck down as the blue flash soared over his head, singeing the top of his brown hair before it collided with the wall behind him. She went to strike again and Eragon did the first thing that came to his mind. Standing back up, he held out his broken right arm, palm facing the witch, and shouted "Letta!"

That was when it all went from bad to worse.

Memories of his confrontation with Murtagh on the Burning Plains suddenly burst through his mind. He remembered standing on the plateau, begging his half-brother to give up his life and Thorn's in order to save thousands of people; remembered how Murtagh had refused his offer with the same spell he had just cast; remembered the feeling of invisible hands clasping around his arms and legs, immobilizing him.

He felt those hands again just then. They grasped hold of his wrists and pinned them to his side while his legs were snapped together and made unable to move. Again, he lost his balance and toppled to the ground, this time unable to twist or break his fall. He landed on the ground with a loud _thud _and a gasp of pain.

Above him, Poena was laughing madly, her head tossed back with her insane cackles until a single tear sprung up in her blue eyes. She wiped it away as her laughter slowly subsided and she stalked up to Eragon so as to look down at him, immobile on the floor. He struggle to move, but the strength of his own spell was too much for him. Not only was he thoroughly exhausted from the use of that one simple curse, but he was also strangely terrified. _What had gone wrong?_

"Did I not mention to tell you," Poena said between gasps of laughter. "That you magic doesn't work on sorceresses like me?" She kicked him again on the side with the broken ribs and he flopped over onto his stomach, face scrunched against the cold stones. "Any spell you cast, any enchantment you weave, will just rebound onto the caster."

She placed her hand on the lower part of his bare back and let the feeling to growing fire run down her arm and into her finger tips. Eragon yelped, but after the initial cry managed to close his mouth and keep silent. Maybe it was the fact that he couldn't squirm away from the touch, but the magic seemed far more painful when immobilized.

It lasted longer this time as well. By the time Poena released her hold on him, Eragon was fighting off black unconsciousness and a sense of overwhelming nausea. He gasped and gagged into the stones under his cheek and was surprised to find himself coughing up blood. With a sigh from above him, the witch freed him from his own confinement spell, but the Rider wasn't going anywhere. He rolled painfully onto his back and lay there, breathing hard and coughing some more. His lips where splattered with dark red specks.

"A small break, perhaps?" Poena suggested as she nodded briskly at the guards. They each came forward and grabbed Eragon's arms, hauling him savagely to his feet and gripping tight to keep his knees from giving out.

They began to lead the semi-conscious Rider away, but suddenly Poena called them back. "A moment, actually, guards." The two men spun back around, jerking Eragon's broken wrist and ribs uncomfortably and causing him to trip over his own feet. The witch slinked up to them again and fixed her eyes intently on Eragon's, who tried to match her glare, but with his eyelids slowly starting the droop the affect was more comical then intimidating.

With a smirk, Poena said. "Why not just finish the job? See you in the Interium, Rider." And she drew back her hand, balling her long, dangerous fingers into a powerful looking fist, and struck him fiercely across the upper jaw. His head snapped to the side and finally he was enveloped in darkness.

* * *

"And lastly, our treasury has been steadily growing larger as more women of the Empire continue to buy our lace. I believe our location in the Empire's land has given the women more accessibility to our product."

"So do you believe, Lady Nasuada, that the money you have earned from your clothing experiment will be enough to fund the raid on Belatona?" King Orin asked the leader of the Varden.

Nasuada glanced quickly over as Trianna, the leader of the Varden's sorceresses who were in charge of the creation of the lace, and received a small nod of affirmation. "Yes, your Highness, I do believe you armies will have enough equipment and supplies to take another Empire city, even as we move closer to Urubane. The further into the Empires land we move, the more women will have the opportunity to buy the lace, particularly those in the North who have been out-of reach for our-"

The doors to the conference room in the palace of Melian suddenly burst open, cutting Nasuada off in the middle of her thought. The dark skinned leader looked up reproachfully for the one who had dared interrupt her meeting with the Kings of Surda and the Dwarves as well as all the other men and women of importance in their cause. She half expected to see Eragon Shadeslayer barging in, returning early from his day of teaching his cousin fencing, but was indeed surprised to find it was Roran Stronghammer himself who was walking briskly over the threshold.

The guards who had been manning the door burst in after him, shouting "Stop!" and "Come back!" They reached for his arms in order to drag the man back, but Roran pulled away from them sharply and even threw a punch at one to ward him off.

"Stronghammer!" Nasuada said harshly as she stood, dark eyes glaring intensely at the winded man. "What is the meaning of this? How dare you interrupt a war meeting so discourteously and without permission!"

The guards finally caught up with him and grabbed his arms, beginning to drag him out of the room, but Roran blurted out, "Lady Nasuada, I apologize, but this could not wait. It's concerning Eragon."

He did not go further into detail but relied on the worried, pleading look in his eyes to speak to the Varden leader. But Nasuada merely stared at him, forehead slightly furrowed as she attempted to figure out the validity of the man before her.

Arya seemed to suddenly materialize from behind Nasuada, arms folded across her usual fighting attire. "Eragon?" She asked in her mystical, song-like voice. "But he has been out with you all day, Stronghammer." Again, Roran was silent and stared intently at the two women, so the elf turned to Nasuada. "My Lady, I sense Roran wishes to speak to you in private, and that it is of the utmost importance."

"Very well." Nasuada said impatiently as she moved away from her chair. "We were basically finished here anyway, yes gentlemen?"

The members of the conference hall all gave various forms of affirmation and, after a quick bow to each other, began to filter out of the room. The guards holding Roran back were excused and asked to continue on in their duties, leaving Roran, Nasuada, and Arya alone in the room.

"Okay, Roran, what is it that is so important that you risked losing your ranking over?" Nasuada asked as she motioned for Roran to sit. But Roran did not move and remained standing, panting, in the center of the room, trying to figure out how to start his story.

"Eragon's been captured."

There was silence following his words as the two women stared at him, understanding and panic slowly starting to appear in their faces. Nasuada was the first to speak, turning to Arya and asking desperately, "Is he telling the truth?"

"I cannot tell in the way you wish unless Roran invites me to reach into his mind." Arya replied, not turning her eyes from the run-down man now leaning against the table as his adrenaline began to disappear. "However, Stronghammer would not tell a lie as harmful as that, and I do not believe he is that good of an actor. I don't doubt he is telling the truth."

Nasuada closed her eyes, burying her head in her hands and taking two very deep breaths. "How did this happen?" She asked without looking up.

And Roran recounted what had happened in the clearing, telling them how he and Eragon had been out numbered helplessly and how they had fought with everything they had nonetheless. Then he came to the appearance of the witch and suddenly found he was having trouble breathing. Between gasps for air he told the others about how she had manipulated Brisingr's fire so as to scald Eragon instead; how her fingers glowed blue and how, with one touch, she had caused the strong Dragon Rider to scream in pain.

"And then she told me to return here and tell you, Lady Nasuada, that the sorceress Poena had taken him in the name of the King, and that he will be trained by her hand. And that-and that you will see him next at the head of Galbatorix's army."

Roran then found himself unable to continue. His jaw shook every time he opened his mouth to speak and he fought to keep his voice from cracking near the end. It did not help his confidence that, by the time he finished, both Nasuada and Arya were deathly white with terrifyingly blank faces.

A moment of silence passed around the room. Arya was the first to break its painful hold as she cleared her throat and spoke. "You said this sorceress used some kind of magic against Eragon? A blue spark?"

"Yes. But she didn't use the Ancient Language. Is it not necessary to say the words out loud?"

"Not if the magic you are using is not connected to the Ancient Language at all." She turned back to Nasuada, sitting up straighter in her chair. "My Lady, I'm afraid the situation is more severe then you may understand."

"More severe?" Nasuada seemed to have finally snapped out of a trance. She glared over at Arya as if she had just been insulted. "The only thing that could possibly be more severe then our only hope, our friend, being captured by Galbatorix is if he was killed."

Arya looked down at the table, emerald eye closed. "That is what I fear, My Lady." She said so softly Roran almost didn't hear it.

"But Galbatorix wants him alive." He said, desperate for reassurance. "Otherwise Saphira dies as well and would not be able rebuild the dragon race. That _is _what he wants, correct?"

"That is correct." Her voice was still low but her expression was slowly beginning to arrange itself back into its usual mask. It was no longer white with surprise or creased with worry, but perfectly unemotional, the way she felt comfortable and safe. By blocking out the physical expression, perhaps it would be possible to block out the feeling all together.

"However," She continued. "This sorceress you described is beyond anything you have heard of in this land. We call them the Rysam, or Trainers, and they are vicious, fierce witches who meddle in magic we elves do not understand, nor do we wish to. Their power comes from pain, their joy from sorrow, and they will do anything to see that their orders are carried out with perfection.

"They used to keep mainly to themselves, not causing too much trouble for young Alagaesia, until they were enlisted by Galbatorix during the Fall of the Riders. They were responsible for a majority of those who turned over to Galbatorix and formed the Forsworn. They- trained them into obedience."

"By Torture?" Roran asked nervously. "But surely if the Riders did not wish to serve Galbatorix, they would be strong enough to resist the lure. I mean, if a Rider can't even defy torture-"

"No one can." Arya finished for him. "Not even the strongest, most stubborn man in all of Alagaesia can resist the touch of the Rysam. They will torture Eragon to within an inch from death, push him over the edge in ways we do not think possible, and when she is done-" Arya paused as her voice suddenly cracked. She took a deep breath to reorganize herself and continued. "When she is done, he will do anything she asks. And there will be nothing we can say against it." She looked sadly over at Nasuada, who had kept silent for most of the talk.

"Eragon will become Galbatorix's most loyal servant if she wishes it on him. He will become the Varden's greatest betrayer. And there will be nothing we can do to stop him from fulfilling his orders."

_Well, __**I'm **__disappointed by the lack of a substantial cliffhanger here, but this chapter seemed to be going on long enough. However, I have a pretty good one planned for next chapter, so be prepared!! In the mean-time, please, leave a review!! I love them! They make me happy! And happy authors like to write a lot faster! Keep that in mind ;)_


	6. The Interium

_Hello all! I apologize for the late update, but I've been crazy busy getting ready for championships this week. I wanted to get this chapter up before I left because I'm not sure how much time I'll have to write while I'm there. I'll take every opportunity I can get, though. Trust me. Also, I have a Twitter now!! Hit me up with a follow. My account name is _brosinarms_. I'll be using it to let ya'll now my progress with the next chapter and to see what you guys think of certain ideas in addition to tweeting little random facts about my life._

_But enough broadcasting myself. Here's chapter 6: The Interium. I hope you enjoy it =)_

The silence that filled the conference hall of the Melian Palace at the end of Arya's words was so thick Roran could barely breathe. If the thought of his cousin being captured by Galbatorix wasn't painful enough, at least then he knew Eragon would be strong enough to defy him, resist the temptation of ending the torture. But the way the elf before him described that sorceress, that murderous, ghastly witch, Roran feared her words were true. That the next time he would lay eyes on the only brother he had ever known would be as the Varden attempt to fight feebly against him.

"But there _must _be something we can do!" He said, refusing to accept that Eragon was helpless, that he was already beyond saving. "Do you know where these-these Rysam live? If we knew their location we could lead an ambush on it. Surely you can spare a regiment of men to save your Rider?"

"It is not the matter of having the men to spare." Said Nasuada. "We have an entire army at our disposal should we need it. The attack on Belatona will, of course, be put on hold until Eragon is back with us."

"Unfortunately," Arya stated solemnly, "I haven't the slightest idea where the Rysam could have settled. As far as I was aware, as it is with most of the elves, the Rysam went extinct along with the deaths of the Riders. We believed Galbatorix had hunted them down years ago in order to keep the truth of the Forsworn's fealty from being leaked to the public, and therefore weakening the fear he held over his subjects."

"Could they have possibly returned to where they were before?" Roran asked hopefully.

Arya shook her head, dark hair fluttering behind her. "Their last temple was on the island of Vroengard, actually _inside _the volcano. Their magic works best in the heat, which is why they spend the winter hunting for their next victims and dedicate the rest of the year to training." She explained at Roran and Nasuada's astonished looks.

Nasuada chimed in, "But didn't Doru Areaba erupt nearly 75 years ago-"

"-The same time the Rysam disappeared and the Forsworn were formally established," Arya interrupted as she nodded. "Covering the island in volcanic rock and poisonous gas and making it absolutely uninhabitable, even for those monsters of human form."

Roran seemed to deflate in his seat as he realized they were no more knowledgeable about the Rysam then a cat was of the bottom of the ocean. They could guess what might be found down in the darkness, guess where the deepest crevice might be, but the only way they were going to gain certainty would be to dive in head first.

"So there is no chance-" His question was suddenly cut short by an earth-shaking, vibrating _thud _that made Roran gasp and look about for the cause of it. Following shortly after was a horribly wicked _ROAR _which caused his teeth to clatter painfully together. Never had he heard such a cry, such an outraged, lethal bellow.

The two women looked nervously at each other and Arya already had her slender sword draw and ready. "Of course!" Nasuada cursed as she grabbed her dagger from the calf-sheath around her leg. "How could we be so idiotic? Now would be the ideal time for the Empire to attack. We're confused and Riderless- GUARDS!"

The doors to the conference room burst open and the two guards who had been wrestling with Roran earlier came running in, looking worried and anxious. "My Lady?"

"Did you hear anything about an assault? Do you see any imperial soldiers?" She snapped impatiently.

"No, My Lady." The guard on the right said quickly. "We've been watching out the windows and there is no sign of an attack. All we could hear was the dragon. Do you believe it may be the Red Rider?"

"Lets hope it's not so." Their leader muttered as she marched purposely out the door, the other four following close at her heels as Roran reached automatically for his hammer only to remember sadly that it had been left it in the clearing.

Servants and maids of the Melian Palace were hurrying back and forth, glancing out the great floor-length windows for the source of such a horrible sound. They scurried out of Nasuada's way as she marched through the halls, dagger in hand and party of four behind her. In each of their minds, the guards, elf, Varden leader, and resistance soldier were praying to whatever gods there may be that it was not Murtagh and Thorn taking advantage of their vulnerability. Totally unprepared and with their hero already in the enemies clutches, it seemed likely that it would be a very short, very unsuccessful fight.

The group stepped out onto the stairs leading to the Palace doors and watched as the men and women filling the roads looked up into the sky, pointing and talking behind their hands. They seemed nervous, true, but not on the verge of fear. Roran followed their pointed hands to the sky and let go an audible sigh of relief at the sight of the great blue dragon.

His relief was short lived as Saphira spun around and, catching Roran's eyes, barred her dangerously sharp teeth and pinned her wings to her sides. She shot through the air and wouldn't throw out her wings to break until she was literally on top of her Rider's cousin, knocking him off his feet and trapping his arms beneath her strong claws.

Roran struggled for a moment before becoming paralyzed by the murderous glare in Saphira's bottomless blue eyes. Her teeth still showed intimidatingly and a growl formed deep in her throat as she yelled into his mind and all those near them _WHERE IS HE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? _

Roran finally found his voice enough to gasp "Saphira, stop! You're cutting off-"

_I'll cut off more then just your circulation, two-legs, if you don't tell me what became of the Rider! _As if to verify her threat, Saphira suddenly dug the tips of her claws deeper into the ground, pulling a yelp from Roran's lips as his skin punctured and blood began to stain his dirt covered sleeves. Behind them, Nasuada began to advance, worry etched on her dark face, but Arya grabbed her wrist and held the woman back, her emerald eyes carefully watching the vicious dragon.

"Saphira, I swear to you!" Roran cried up the beautiful, snarling beast above him. "I did everything I could! I'm doing everything within my power to find him, and I will! What is it that Eragon always says?" He glanced over at Arya as he tried to remember exactly how the words were formed and pronounced. "_Vel einradhin_"

Saphira continued to growl and snarl at her captive, but the pressure put on Roran's arms by her sharp front feet was slowly relieved.

"Saphira?" Arya said softly and comfortingly as she took a small step forward. "We understand your pain and worry, but I give you my word as an elf, we _will _find Eragon and bring justice to she who took him. But we need your patients and help, if you would be willing to give it."

Her razor teeth then disappeared behind her scaly lips and, bowing her head slightly, she said _Of course, Arya Svit-kona. _

Suddenly, the fierce dragon no longer looked murderous and brutal, but thoroughly depressed with anxiety. Her head still hanging and wings drooped, Saphira pulled herself off her Rider's cousin, who got awkwardly to his feet while holding tight to his injured arms.

_I apologize, Roran Stronghammer. I am not myself. _

"I don't blame you. I cannot even begin to try relating to how you must be feeling. The apology is mine, for loosing what is most precious to all of us."

Saphira's deep blue eyes seemed to soften as they looked over the man before her. She stretched out her neck and placed the tip of her nose on Roran's forehead. _You are, of course, forgiven, Stronghammer. _

When she removed her nose from Roran's head, she turned back to Nasuada and Arya. _My Lady, how may I be of assistan-_

Suddenly Saphira let out a vicious roar. Her neck arched around until her snout was touching her chest and her wings and tail were thrashing violently, as if she were trying unsuccessfully to escape from something painful. Fire erupted from her nostrils and charred the stone ground at her feet.

"Saphira!" Nasuada jumped forward, recognizing pain when she saw it, but the dragon snapped at her with powerful jaws when she came closer.

It didn't last long, but by the time Saphira was relieved of the sudden, unexpected pain, she was breathing roughly and shaking all over. Nasuada remained where she was this time, but softly asked "Saphira, what is it?"

The dragon looked up and straight into the eyes of the Varden Leader, her own glowing sapphires pleading and worried.

_Eragon._

_Everything around him was a beautiful, familiar emerald green, from the tips of the towering pines to the small shrubs at his feet. He felt so at peace carving his way between the ancient trees of Du Weldenvarden once again and feeling the faint breezes caress his face. They carried the overwhelmingly delicious scent of crushed pine needles and jasmine flowers, though those smells could be coming instead from the woman who walked so near at his side. _

_He and Arya strolled so close together that the skin of her bare arms could brush against his. They walked in silence, no need for words to spoil the serenity of the moment. Overhead, birds chirped and serenaded the sky while somewhere hidden in the trees a brook laughed to itself as it tripped over its own river stones._

_They rounded a corner and unexpectedly Arya's hands were on his shoulders, shoving him backwards until his spine made contact with the soft trunk of an oak. She leaned close, close enough for him to count the number of elegant eyelashes and freckles in her deep jade eyes. Close enough for him to have to tilt his head to the side so their noses would not collide. Then suddenly her lips were on his, her soft, pink lips. They brushed together for only a moment before she pulled away, green eyes concealed behind their lids. Without thinking, he reached out, held her slim face between his hands, and kissed her more deeply then he had imagined was possible. She began to kiss him back before tearing away again. _

"_Wake up, little Rider." She said, but it was not her musical voice he heard, but a harsh, mocking one that was almost familiar. And the Arya before him then raised her hand and slapped him viciously across the face._

It took Eragon a moment to realize the slap was not only in his dream and the sharp sting on his left cheek caused him to wince against his will. After the shock of being woken so suddenly and harshly wore off, he soon recognized where he was.

He was back in that same circular room with the red walls and floors. Those blood-splattered stones were a good foot below him from where he hung, suspended once again by those wicked chains, blood dripping down his arms from where the cuffs cut through his skin. His broken ribs and wrist were screaming in anguish and he was surprised he had not been awakened by the pain.

Poena stood before him, watching with shocking curiosity as the Rider fought to wake himself fully. Her blond head was tilted slightly to the side and her forehead gracefully furrowed in interest. Eragon couldn't explain why, but something about the way she was looking at him drove him completely insane.

"What?" He snapped, packing every ounce of venom he could muster into that single syllable.

"Who were you dreaming about?" She asked softly with an air of already knowing the answer. Eragon lifted his chin defiantly and silently refused to respond, turning his eyes away in the attempt to find Brisingr instead.

"I wouldn't bother with that." Poena said as she followed his gaze. "I had your sword moved to my personal chambers, so as to practice with it when I'm through with you." She began to pace in front of him, leather boots padding softly against the floor, and motioned around the room. "I assume you recognize where you are, Eragon, but perhaps you do not fully know what the purpose of this room is. So I am pleased to be the first to welcome you to the Interium, Rysam for _Place of beatless hearts. _You remember, of course, poor little Nikael as he was sent here to die, yes?" She leaned into him, noses just inches apart, causing Eragon to become overwhelmed with the sudden urge to sneeze on her.

"Did you know," Poena continued in a seductive whisper that sent a chill down the Rider's spine. "That if I touch you right _here,_" She ran her hand over his bare chest and came to rest on his heart. "And light up my_miccio, _your heart will become so besieged with pain, it will stop beating?" She leaned in even closer until she was forced to tilt her head to the side to avoid a nose-collision, reminding Eragon horribly of his vision with Arya. "Now tell me," she growled. "Who were you dreaming of?"

At this, Eragon nearly laughed, but the sudden stab of his broken ribs when he did so stopped him short. After a small gasp, he said, "Your threats won't work on me. I know Galbatorix needs me alive in order to use Saphira to rebuild the Dragon race. I don't believe he would be too happy with you if he found out I died at your hands."

This caused the witch to pause, blue eyes flitting between the two of his before turning her back on him. She stared at the opposite wall for a moment as if contemplating all possible options. "Perhaps you are correct, little Rider. But unfortunately for you, that is a risk I am willing to take."

Lightening fast, she spun around, blond braid swinging behind her, and threw out her hand to collide with the left side of his chest, just over his heart. There was a momentary flash of blinding blue light and suddenly Eragon was plagued with agony so deep, so pure, so thoroughly excruciating that his previous encounters with this strange form of magic seemed benign and gentle. He trashed for a second, yelled out involuntarily in the length of a heartbeat, but his energy soon vanished and he lost the strength to move on his own accord. His muscles convulsed and stiffened. His eyes rolled up under his lids, which quickly slid shut to cover the whites.

Poena watched unemotionally and the Rider's muscles suddenly relaxed and went limp. She released her magic hold on him, retraced the _miccio_ and stepped back to examine her work.

Eragon's flaccid form swung limply at the end of its chains, thoroughly motionless. Not a muscle flinched of an eyelid twitched, not a finger jerked or trembled in their cuffs. His stomach and chest no longer swelled with each breath for his lungs no longer inhaled or exhaled. The blood stopped dead in his veins when it lacked the power to move on as his heart took one last, final beat before becoming as motionless as the rest of his body.

TBC

_Dun, dun, dun! Did I _really _just do that? Who knows, I guess you'll just have to wait until the next chapter to find out. In the meantime, though, I'd like to remind you that reviews are loved and adored and I thank everyone who's left me a comment! You really help me continue writing when I feel like just throwing my computer at the wall!! Till next time…._


	7. The Kiss of Life

_*Smiles innocently* I am TRULY sorry for how long it has been, but I had to rewrite this chapter nearly a thousand times before it was even close to something I liked. Still don't really like it, but I figured I'd been abusing my beloved readers/reviews for far too long. So here it is…finally. And we get to see a whole new side to Poena, which was interesting to write to say the least. Hope you enjoy it!!_

It's amazing how fragile and delicate human life can be, how this advanced creature can be broken and bent and beaten by simple words and certain instruments, and how it could only be the touch of a finger that can finish it all. Like the broken tip of an arrowhead nicking the heel of an undefeated champion, ending his existence with its mere touch.

How pathetically easy it is to squeeze the life out of someone, for instance, a once revered soldier reduced to a small, defeated farm-boy, with just a single wicked thought and cruel action.

Poena watched impassively as the lifeless body of her latest trainee was lowered roughly from its chains, crumpling into a pitiful heap at her feet. The Rider's mouth was slightly open from when his scream of pain had been cut short and his dark brown eyes were blinded by his closed lids, not that they would be able to see anyway had they been unveiled. And an odd black mark now blemished his skin just above his heart, right where Poena had placed her finger; a mark that held a striking resemblance to the end result of fire on wood. It was the size of a robin's egg and fanned out like the rays on the sun, a permanent souvenir of his first deathly _miccio _strike.

A guard came forward and began unlocking Eragon's cuffs. They fell from his wrists with a clatter to the ground, red around the edges from where they bit into his skin and tasted his blood. The guard lifted Eragon's limp body and slung it over his shoulder "What will you 'ave me do with 'im, M' Lady?" He said as he avoided the witch's watching eye.

"Take it to the Lactis, and have some water brought." She replied indifferently, turning away from the sight of the dead boy. Instead, Poena's eyes fell on the new arrival to the room, a slender woman who seemed slightly older then Poena, also dressed in red leather, leaning casually against the door frame. "Mother Jaryca." Poena greeted.

The red-haired women nodded slightly, her eyes following the guard as he hauled the Rider's flaccid form towards the adjacent door and out of sight. "Sister Poena. First time for him, I see? You are going to have to pick up the pace if you intend to make your one-month deadline." She chastised.

"Don't fear, Jaryca, I will have it done on time. I have had plenty of practice and learned only from the best." Poena flashed a pointed smile at the woman, who returned it with a hint of pride in her cold, green eyes. "Besides, I have seen his heart and what it holds and, Mother Jaryca, you have never seen anything like it." She said with almost awe. She slipped off her leather gloves and began to rub her right index finger, massaging a burn mark of her own until the dark black spot faded to gray, then silver, and then finally disappeared all together.

"Was it large?" Jaryca asked.

"Larger then any who have passed through these halls." Poena answered, now checking her nails to see if the paint had been chipped at all. Satisfied they were not, she looked back up at her mentor. "I admittedly do not understand. This boy clearly puts fear into our King, yet how can one be such a formidable warrior while holding onto so much love? How does it not weigh his down? Does it not affect him to see those he cares about walking into battle, or knowing he may never set eyes on them again? Is he unable to detach himself from the restrictions of love? Can he not-"

"Peace, Poena." Jaryca called out, raising a hand to silence the other. "Your only flaw, child, is that you ask too many questions. You are still young at one-hundred, that is your excuse for now, but beware of your fault in the future. Erroneous questions can often lead to unwanted consequences.

"Now, you wonder why he can manage to love so much when what you should be thinking of is how you will turn _that ­_love into a love for _you. _I have seen you do it a thousand times over, I have coached you through the necessary steps, and so I have no doubt in my mind you will make it work on this Rider. He is, of course, the ideal trainee in that aspect." And she placed a hand on the younger Rysam's shoulder, looking deeply into the others eyes, and a silent understanding seemed passed between the two. Poena nodded slowly and began to pull her gloves back on over immaculate fingers.

"And on that note," Jaryca continued. "A letter just arrived for you…From the King." She held out a black folded piece of parchment with Galbatorix's official seal, busted along the edge where someone had broken into it to read. "I apologize for the intrusion." Jaryca expressed as she handed the letter over. "My curiosity took the better of me and I'm afraid I couldn't resist."

The red-head gave her minor a moment to scan through the thin, fluid handwriting of the King's scribe. Once Poena had reached the bottom of the parchment twice, she looked up, slightly confused.

"He wishes me to write twice, weekly, on Eragon's progress? I wonder why he did not insist on this with Murtagh."

"Perhaps, this one is of more importance, more valuable? I hear he is planning, as the ultimate act of betrayal towards the Varden, to have the boy summon his dragon to Uru'baen himself. I believe that must take an extra dosage from the _miccio _if anything does. I suggest you report back soon."

Poena nodded again and folded the letter back up. "Of course. Could you have one of our riders prepare a horse for when I'm done?"

Poena began to walk towards the door her charge had been dragged through, but Jaryca grabbed her arm, pulling the blond back to face her. "Perhaps the _miccio _sessions have gone to your head as well, Poena. It's mid-afternoon, mid-summer. If you wish for a rider and horse to survive the desert, then I advise you wait till dusk, when the heat has had a chance to recede. You must remember not all can withstand our level of heat."

"Yes, Mother Jaryca, you're right." She laughed softly, running a hand over her hair. "I suppose I have become too fixated on proving myself over the last few months. A few hours will not hurt, I expect."

Jaryca released Poena's arm and smiled. "Good. Now attend to your charge. He's been dead for nearly half and hour now and I don't want him to start stinking up the place."

And as Poena sauntered off towards the door to the Lactis, Jaryca smiled and silently prayed for the boy Rider, pitying him for what he will be forced to go through this coming month.

* * *

As Poena entered the Lactis, a small, comfortable room furnished with a mixture of overstuffed sofas and arm chairs all centered around a small coffee table, her eyes immediately fell on the pitiful sight of the dead Rider. He had been laid down on one of the backless couches, his limp and broken right arm hanging at an odd angle over the side of the cushion. Poena sat down beside the boy, so small in death, and used her gloved hand to brush away a strand of dirty, blood-soaked hair from his face, almost gently.

Some one had closed his mouth, or maybe it had fallen closed in the journey over to this room, but either way Poena, after giving a soft sigh, used her fingers to slowly open Eragon's mouth just a fraction of an inch.

She began to lean down and, with her hands on either side of his head, brushed her lips against his, soft at first and then steadily growing stronger. Something cold and wispy moved up her throat, like icy smoke, and slid over her tongue, across her teeth, and over her lips into the mouth of the Rider.

A moment passed, two moments, and Poena remained as she was, deeply kissing a dead body as more smoke issued from somewhere in the back of her throat. Finally, she felt the unmistakable feeling of the wisps being _pulled _from her mouth by a fresh inhale. She could feel his tongue begin to move again, rubbing along hers until she at last pulled away and looked down at what she had done.

Eragon's lips had tried to follow hers when she tore them apart, and now his eye lids were beginning to flutter, revealing those chocolate brown orbs, sightful and alive.

"Welcome back." Poena said softly, coolly. Eragon's eyebrows began to furrow, confused, as would only be natural, and he began to shift his lethargic, unresponsive body. "Be still, Eragon." Poena demanded, and he immediately fell silent. "You've been dead for nearly an hour now. Your body is not accustom to the ordeal yet and you will not be able to properly move for a while more. I suggest you get comfortable."

Eragon took a moment to string his jumbled thoughts into something a little more understandable and to put the three puzzled words together. "I've been….dead?"

The sorceress nodded emotionlessly. "I warned you about pressing my patients, little Rider, and you didn't believe I could do it, did you?" She leaned down until her lips were nearly touching his again, enticingly, tantalizingly close. "It's called the _basvita,_" She breathed."the Kiss of Life. It is used to revive those who have been killed in training. One of the Rysam's most useful weapons, apart from our _miccio _of course_._

"But would you like to know the best aspect of the Kiss of Life?" And she ran her bottom lip against his as she said it, feeling him automatically moving closer, searching for her lips. "The greatest feature of the _basvita _is its effect on the victim. It contains a substance that travels from one breath to another, coursing its way through your system and, eventually, settling in your heart. And that poor person on the receiving end of the Kiss…" She paused, lifting her head to look into Eragon's even more confused brown eyes. With the hint of a smile, she finished, "Well, let's just say that unfortunate victim becomes something much worse then a slave. They cannot resist pleasing us, cannot refuse doing exactly what we wish from them, as you say with our friend, Nikael."

Suddenly, the confused look vanished from the Rider's eyes and defiance burned behind them in their stead. "No." He said, his voice raspy from lack of water. "No, I'm not your slave."

Poena raised an eyebrow and laughed shortly. "You believe so, Rider? How about we put it to a test?"

She sat up and looked down her nose at the semi-conscious boy, already nearly drifting into the warm embrace of sleep. "Eragon," She said slowly. "Kiss me."

His right hand was holding her head from behind before the words had even completely left her lips and his mouth was on hers without a second of hesitation. It lasted a few seconds before Eragon suddenly came to his senses and tore away from the witch, and stunned and disgusted look in his eyes.

"My point is proven." She whispered. Poena rose quickly and, glancing down at Eragon, commanded, "Now stay here, Eragon. I have a letter to send the King regarding your improvement."

Still confused, still stunned, still trying to wrap his mind around what just happened, that involuntary _need _to kiss her, Eragon simply looked down at his hands and replied absentmindedly, "Yes, Mistress."

TBC

_UGH! Still hate this chapter and how it came out =( Lemme know that ya'll thought with a quick review. Maybe that'll brighten my mood. Until next time…. 3_


	8. Forgive Me

_Well, here's one good thing about being sick…I actually have time to catch up on all my writing. Junior year is already starting to take its toll, so bear with me for a while guys. (hmm….is it bear or bare?) Well, either way, here's chapter 8. Hope you enjoy and please leave me a note on your way out ;-)_

Nearly fifteen minutes passed before that witch's curse began to lift from Eragon's body, his face morphing from blank, passive confusing to utter revulsion and disbelief. With every passing second his mouth seemed to drop open a little more until it might as well have fallen to the floor. _Yes, __**mistress**__? Did I honestly just __say __that?_

The realization rolled over him like hot ice. It coursed through him, burning his insides like the liquid fire of the _miccio, _just as painful and unforgiving, and sent a chill up his spine. He had never felt so out of control, so powerless over his own actions, yet at the same time he _was _telling his body what to do. Before, he hadn't believed the sorceress when she said he would be incapable of resisting her wishes, he knew he would be strong enough to oppose her. But now….now he wasn't sure.

No, he was sure. He was sure that another day in this red-stoned prison, another touch from her vicious finger, another trip down death's trail, and just one more kiss would break him. How long would it take the next time to snap out of it? Half an hour? A whole day? A week? He couldn't afford to lose control of himself again. He had to _focus _on getting out and back to the Varden. Back to Saphira.

The thought of his beautiful dragon somewhere out there, possibly hurt and alone, slashed through his heart like a flaming sword. He _had_ to return to her! There _must _be a way out!

Eragon seemed to finally snap out of his horrified thoughts, and with a jerk of his head glanced about the room, a smile crossing his cracked lips for what seemed like the first time in days. One of the many doors lining the room was still just slightly but noticeably ajar. Beyond, Eragon's exceptional eye-sight caught the image of a hallway and stairs leading down. Down to the first floor and to the exit?

At first, he stood up slowly, knowing that in his current state it wouldn't be surprising if his legs fully gave out beneath him and send him crashing to the ground. Fortunately, his knees decided to help him in his escape instead of hinder it, wobbling slightly but otherwise staying straight. In a few excited steps he crossed the room; in a few pounding heart beats he was facing the unlocked door.

Then suddenly a horrible thought came over him. He had no clue where he was going, no idea how to get out of this unfamiliar building. And even I he did, by some miracle, manage to make it out unnoticed and unstopped, then what? He could be anywhere in Alagaesia…anywhere OUT of Alagaesia for all he knew.

His legs were starting to ache again and Eragon knew that the sudden loss of the adrenaline and excitement accompanying the hope of escape was taking its potentially deadly toll. He had two choices: stay here and be a good little subject to that sorceress's curse, or attempt the escape where either he will be lucky enough to reach the world outside or, in the most likely case, get caught on the run and punished severely for it. Two out of three of the options did not leave a good taste in the Rider's mouth, yet the only alternative with a silver lining seemed all too likely to get rained out.

With a deep breath, Eragon made up his mind, deciding he preferred the chances of making it out alive now as opposed to the odds of resisting Poena's kiss again. So with a final, concluding sigh he gently pushed the door open, grateful the hinges forgot to squeak and the guards overlooked the prisons weakness.

As he had thought, the hallway lead on a little ways before falling into a set of spiraling stairs, a giant window set along side it. Eragon crept forward on trembling tiptoes, constantly glancing backwards towards the room he had just escaped from, until he was at the edge of the stairs and glanced out the window to the world outside. His heart stopped beating for the second time in the last hour and his lungs seemed suddenly unable to take in enough air. All Eragon could see on the other side of the glass was jagged, sun baked rocks that fell steeply away before melting into miles and miles of endless sand that finally morphed into a cloudless, rainless sky on the horizon. The Hadarac Desert looked deadly and unforgiving from this height, but Eragon could not remember seeing a mountain of pale yellow rock when he had flown over it so many times before with Saphira.

At least he knew where he was now, but the question was: Would he survive the desert if he still managed to escape? Looking down at his bare chest and feet that could barely hold him up, the cuts and scraps and half-mended gashes that littered his torso, and the blackened patch of charred skin above his heart, Eragon knew the answer. But still, the Rider knew his window of opportunity was closing with every passing second and maybe, just maybe, if he could get far enough away from this place he would be able to contact Saphira.

It was with that thought that Eragon made up his mind. Just the prospect of regaining his connection with his dragon, filling in that empty hole that had been ripped away in her absence made challenging the will of the desert seem sane. So, with a final glace at the never-ending waste land, Eragon began his way down the spiral staircase.

Remarkably, the hallway at the bottom of the stairs was deserted as well, leaving Eragon with the sour taste of suspicion in his mouth. But he continued on, his footsteps moving slowly from a tiptoed crawl to a speed walk and then, suddenly, into a run. His legs burned from the disuse of the last few days and he was quickly out of breath, but the hall was coming to an end. There was a sharp turn to the left and, somehow, Eragon knew another set of stairs waited for him just around the corner.

_Wham!_

The little air that was able to make it into his lungs vanished as he was thrown backwards into the wall by some unknown force that had been hiding where the hallway turned. Eragon sucked for breath in vain but was cut short as a knife was pressed roughly against his neck and a four-fingered hand came over his mouth, silencing his surprised gasp.

* * *

Two days had passed since Saphira had threatened Roran's life, and the great blue dragon wasn't feeling any less murderous. She abhorred the lack of progress towards finding her Rider and made that very clear every time she saw one of the leading ladies of the Varden. However, Arya and Nasuada were rarely seen in public anymore since Eragon's cousin had brought that horrible news, and Saphira hoped that meant they were trying to find a way to rescue him. They had yet to tell the rest of the Varden of their Rider's capture, but these men weren't stupid. For those of them that had been around since the beginning, it was clear something was amiss. Saphira would be found regularly sulking around on her own and they knew that rarely you would be able to see one without the other.

Uncomfortable questions were starting to be asked.

Then finally, on the evening of the second day, Saphira picked up the familiar scent of crushed pine needles and fruit, and lifted her head to see the elf maiden approaching cautiously. The summer breeze rolled in and grabbed at her black hair, tossing it in front of her face so as to conceal the look of emotional pain and concern that crossed her delicate features. For some reason, Saphira felt anger boil inside her gut at the expression, and a low growl had formed in the back of her throat.

Saphira knew the elf was brave, but the fact that she kept coming forward even as a deadly dragon snarled at her approach made her think that maybe Arya was foolish as well. But Arya simply stepped forward as if Saphira had invited her over and knelt down in front of the dragon, where her sapphire eyes could keep watch on her.

A moment of silence passed between them before Saphira could no longer hold the question in. _Have you found where he is being kept yet?_

Arya's eyes flickered to the ground and then back up, filled with sympathy and (could it be possible?) forming tears. "No, Saphira, we have not." The dragon began to growl again in frustration and Arya quickly continued on. "But we do have a theory on where he might be. All we really know about the Rysam at the moment is that they prefer areas with warmth. Their previous home had been inside a volcano, for example."

Saphira exhaled a puff of black smoke in irritation. _Then why have you not sent out troops to the hottest places in Alagaesia yet? Why are you wasting time when my Eragon could be hurt? _

"Because Nasuada does not wish to trouble the soldiers." Arya said quickly, interrupting the dragon's rant. "With an inevitable battle coming upon us much faster then we had hoped, she does not want to dampen their spirits with news that their Rider has fallen to the empires forces. I have told her that, in order to defeat these Rysam, we will need as many men as possible, yet all she sees necessary to lend is about fifty men. She believes, and with reason, too, that Galbatorix will see this as an ideal time to attack and destroy us. I'm afraid we will have to settle with only a limited amount of soldiers to accompany us. That is, if you desire to come as well."

Saphira was on her feet far faster then something her size should be able to move, causing the elf to take a sudden step backwards. _You think you can keep me _away _from helping you find Eragon? If it hadn't been for my trust in you and Nasuada, I would have been out of here days ago. When do we leave and where do we search first?_

Arya smiled at this, he white teeth flashing brightly in the darkness that had descended over them during their talk. She glanced up at the sky, the moon now visible over the Beor Mountains, full and bright and cutting off the light from the stars surrounding it. "We leave in the morning. At first light. And we'll be searching the Hadarac Desert first, for I cannot picture a more horribly hot place then there in the summer."

* * *

It took a moment for the black blotches that dotted his vision from the impact of being slammed into a wall to fully dissolve, but once they did Eragon was able to see a face he hadn't expected to see again swim before him. The boy's featured were different from when they had first met; no longer innocent and scared but fierce and—cold. Like he suddenly had a death-grudge on the Rider he had once shared a cell with for a few minutes.

Despite the hand with the missing digit clasped over his mouth, Eragon couldn't help but breath in disbelief "Nikael?"

The boy glanced up at the sound of his name, his dark eyes unfocused, but only pressed the edge of the blade deeper into Eragon's throat, a thin line of red forming where it nicked the skin. Then his eyes suddenly softened and he moved his hand away from Eragon's lips, his head tilted slightly to the side. "Eragon? What are you doing? Are you trying to escape?"

He asked it like escaping was the worst crime a person could commit, as if he would turn his back on the option of running away if the choice ever presented itself to him without a second thought. Eragon felt his eyebrows furrow in confusion and concern, but then he realized what had happened. After Poena's first kiss, the thought of escape had never even entered his mind either. This boy was still under her spell and he _had _to break it.

"Nikael, listen to me. You need to let me go, let me escape, and you need to escape as well. Come with me to Surda and the Varden will protect you. We can get you back to your family, your parents."

"My parents are dead." He interrupted emotionlessly, as if it did not concern him at all. "Mistress Poena killed them so I could come here."

Eragon tried to keep his jaw from dropping open, but he was unsuccessful. How could this fourteen year old boy not care that his parents had been murdered by the one he worships. "Surely you must have other family members." Eragon persisted. "A sister or—or a brother of some kind."

A fierce light suddenly entered Nikael's eyes again as he said slowly "Our mistress is our family now, Eragon. Mistress Poena is all that matters in this world. She is the only one that has shown us love."

"No." Eragon said sternly as he grabbed the blade of the knife at his throat, angling his hand in order to avoid the obviously sharp edge. For a moment he recognized it as the knife Poena had given Nikael to cut off his own finger. "Poena is a murderous witch who has you under a curse. I'm sorry, Nikael, but I will not let you stop me from escaping."

The boy began to shake in anger with every word Eragon said, but his rage turned against him when he forgot how to react in time. Eragon tightened his hold on the knife and kneed Nikael in the stomach, sending him crumbling to the ground, clutching his abdomen in pain. He dropped the knife in the moment of distraction and the Rider quickly took over it, jumping a little ways away from the fallen boy.

"I'm sorry, Nikael." Eragon repeated. "I'll come back for you, I promise." And he turned around, knife held tightly in his hand, and began to run down the hall again.

He only made it a few feet when something wrapped around his legs, pulling him down and hitting the ground with a painful _smack! _He just missed falling on the knife's blade my a couple inches. Turning his head, Eragon saw Nikael's body thrown over his, arms strangling his calves, before the boy sat up and, planting one knee on the Rider's chest, glared down at him.

"DO NOT REFER TO OUR MISTRESS THAT WAY!" He yelled as he drew his arm back for a four-fingered punch. Not entirely prepared and head still swimming, Eragon took the punch and felt the familiar sensation of his own hot blood forming on his face. Nikael raised his arm for another attack, but this time, Eragon was ready. He caught the boy's fist as it flew through the air and viciously tossed it away.

"Nikael, be quiet! Before the entire building knows where we are!" But Nikael continued to yell at him. Eragon finally gave up trying to quiet the boy and rolled over, tossing Nikael off his chest, and grabbed the knife. He had no intention of using it, he could never kill a defenseless boy, but he hoped it would scare him enough to make him back off.

Unfortunately, it did not work out that way. Nikael took one look at the knife in Eragon's hand, snarled, and lunged forward. Time seemed to slowdown as the soldier inside Eragon took over and, with a careful eye, managed to lash out and grab Nikael's shoulders, spinning his around and slamming him into the wall.

But the wall was closer then Eragon had anticipated, and a little lamp that hung on it was just the same height as Nikael's head. Glass shattered and rained down on the boy as his eyes suddenly widened, his mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something but couldn't. Eragon felt himself release his shoulders in horror and Nikael slumped to the ground, blood trailing down the wall from the back of his head. The little sharp platform that had held in candle in the lamp was red with blood and speckled with short, brown hair.

Nikael looked around the hall, as if confused on how he had gotten there, and then laid eyes on the mortified Eragon. After a few seconds of him gaping and groping for words that seemed just outside his reach, the boy whispered three absolutely horrified words: "Forgive me, Eragon."

Then he fell to his side and lay still, a pool of blood forming around him from the head wound. Eragon couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't even think straight. This innocent boy had just died at far too young an age and _he _was asking for forgiveness? Eragon suddenly felt sick and fell to his knees, head reeling and black dots forming again.

If he thought this was the worst of it, he was sorely mistaken.

Someone was clapping slowly in the background, as if the whole fight had been a very well played-out scene in a play, and Eragon turned to see those horrible red leather boots that were worn by an even more horrible person striding towards him. Poena stopped just next to him so he was forced to crane his neck in order to glare at her, which didn't seem quite as threatening in that way.

"And who knew that after three days in this place you would still have so much fight left in you." She sighed and glanced down and Nikael's body, an unconcerned frown crossing her lips. "Though I am rather upset that you've killed my other trainee. What a waste of time that was."

Anger boiled inside him until all he wanted to do was drive that knife into her heart, but looking around he found that it was no longer next to him. A guard he had not seen before had stepped forward and picked it up, tucking it away in his belt. Eragon's breathing was heavy as he fought to keep a straight head. "Revive him." He suddenly demanded.

"I beg your pardon?" Poena asked form above.

"I said revive him!" Eragon snarled as he went to stand up. The guard quickly came forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, holding the Rider back in case he decided to attack, which wasn't looking like a very bad idea to him at the moment. When Poena continued to look at him as if he were speaking Urgal he pressed on. "Do that kiss of life trick you preformed on me!. The _basvita!_"

Poena began to chuckle softly, as if the whole exchange was rather humorous to her. "My dear Eragon, all magic has its boundaries. Your ancient language drains your energy with every spell, and my magic has its limits as well. I cannot revive poor Nikael because he did not die at my hand. He died at _your _hand. And therefore, the _basvita _will not work. It seems our little friend will be remaining dead, thanks to you."

Eragon barred his teeth savagely and suddenly lunged at the sorceress, wishing nothing more then to tear that twisted witch apart and separate the pieces over Alagaesia. But the guard behind him caught him and grabbed his arms, viciously twisting them until Eragon cried out in pain. Poena continued to laugh.

"Take him away." She said with an offhanded flick of her wrist. "I'll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow morning, Eragon. And I'll have to thank you again for Nikael's death. Now I have time to focus all my attention—on you."

And with a cruel smile she vanished around the corner, leaving Eragon to be dragged backwards by the rough hands of the guard.

TBC

_*pff* Well….I'm still sick. I was really hoping that finally completing this chapter would make the sickness go away. But apparently not. So maybe a few reviews might make the fever go bye-bye (hint hint, wink wink, nudge nudge). _


	9. Breaking

_A thousand apologies, my beloved readers! I have been a bad, bad author! Ignoring you for all this time…I am disgusted with myself! I would beg for your forgiveness, but I believe I have a better way to make up for it that doesn't involve me lowering my self-esteem so that it resembles a smudge of dirt. I offer you a much longer chapter in this post and a promise that I will update my nest chapter before Christmas! And if that's not enough for you, I guess I'll resort to groveling on my knees. Enjoy!_

Time is the most curious substance. It can be as fluid as water, as consistent and reliable as the sun rising and falling each day, or it can run as slow as molasses on a hot summer afternoon. And no matter the situation, time always seems to work against its prey. In anticipation or apprehension, it will take its time, making each second a minute, each minute an hour, each hour a year. Yet for those who wish only to have a little more time, a little bit longer to complete their task, time seems to laugh in their face. _How dare you try to control me, _it scorns its victims as it punishes them by flying by rebelliously. People say there are many uncontrollable variables in life, but time may be the most unruly.

Saphira did not easily accept the fact that some other force in the land could be even more uncontrollable then herself, especially a force that proved itself to be every bit as stubborn as the great dragon. No matter how many times she threatened it or the lives of the excruciatingly slow men she was forced to travel with, it refused to show mercy on her tortured soul and grant a speedy journey to her Rider. A fact that the already murderous dragon was not entirely fond of.

_I am going to eat each and every one of these hairless monkeys if they waste another second of my time looking for Eragon on their needs. _

Saphira growled angrily inside her own head, smoke rising from her nostrils at the thought. If any of the Varden had believed Saphira to look murderous and deadly upon first seeing her, that first impression was nothing compared to the lethal glare she now gave every man within her line of vision.

A week of fruitless searching had already passed and they had only just reached the south-western boarder of the Hadarac Desert. The men were starting to complain about how quickly the water they had gathered at Tudosten Lake seemed to be vanishing and a few looked forlornly at the immense stretch of sand-land awaiting them. Only Arya seemed steadily on course, emerald eyes fixed to the east, dead set through the middle of the wasteland.

"Saphira," She said suddenly, causing the Dragon to snap out of her irritated thoughts. "I may not be Elva, but I can sense you frustration at our slow progress. I understand how hard it must be to sit here, knowing somewhere in this wasteland Eragon could be in serious pain—"

_Is this supposed to be helping me relax? _Saphira asked impatiently, but Arya ignored her.

"—But you must promise me," She turned sharply to look at the sapphire dragon with her intense, piercing glare, but they were almost pleading as well. "You _must_ swear not to fly off alone and ahead of us. These Rysam, if the legends are true, are far different than anything you, Eragon, or even I have ever encountered. They are as deadly as falcons and as cunning as the cats of the Beors, and they will use anything and everything to their advantage. I fear that if you show up and lay siege to their temple openly, they may not only harm Eragon in order to force you away but they may also harm you and then have both Rider and Dragon in their clutches."

Smoke shot from Saphira's nostrils as she laughed in disbelief. _Harm me? I would tear them apart before they even had time to acknowledge my arrival. _

"No one doubts your strength and determination, Saphira." Arya assured her. "Yet do not allow you pride and resolve to cloud your better judgment. We need you just as you need us. Strength in numbers and comfort in company. Please, swear to me you will remain?"

The sun was now setting over the dunes, casting a golden glow against the sand that sparkled in Saphira's cobalt eyes and danced off the elf's black hair. For a moment, the elf and dragon watched the flaming orb approach the pale horizon, waiting without reason for the moment it would disappear behind the dunes for another long night. Despite their watching eyes, they did not see. They were both too lost in thought and regret to notice the blur of red flash across the sky towards the center of the vast desert.

_I swear, _Saphira finally said, not even bothering to hold back the resentment she felt in her promise. _I swear I will not make rash decisions and take off to my Rider's aid, although every bone in my body, every fiber of my being begs me to do just that. But you must swear in return, elf, that you will not hold me back from those ripping those monsters into bootlaces once we reach them. _

Arya laughed lightly as the sun finally vanished beneath the sand. "Of course, Saphira. Once Eragon is safe again you may do whatever you wish to those beasts only as long as you keep yourself out of harms way. I did not travel all this way to save a boy just to lose a dragon."

* * *

Fresh blood lined the walls of the corridor and created streams of ruby-red liquid running towards the ground where the rivulets gathered into a number of small pools. The metallic smell of it burned his nose and made his eyes water, not only from the scent. There was so much of it, too much of it. What had happened? How had it happened? Did this happen to him as well? Did he lose all this blood at their hands?

The sound of clashing metal pierced the air along with a surprised and painful cry. He could feel the Rysam guiding him through the hallways become excited and bounce a step, like a skip of joy, at the sound of the training session. It mad him feel sick to the point where he actually had to close his eyes, an action he did not think highly of in this unnamed monster's presence, and focus on controlling his breathing.

"This way, my lord." The brunette instructed silkily, flashing him a dangerous smile of temptation and knowing. There was another collision of metal on metal and the Red Rider forced his eyes open, his ears not helping to block out the pain in any case.

The scene revealed to him made him gasp in surprise and disbelief, a perhaps in a little disappointment as well as he felt his heart and hope suddenly shrivel up into an object that slightly resembled a raison. Small, withered, and black.

The familiar figure of Poena stood in the center of the room, a beautiful, bright blue sword held high and ready in her left hand while her right already prepared the dose of electric fire for her victim. And then, to Murtagh's dismay, his eyes finally fell on the so called victim of this inhuman fiend. Had he not experienced it himself, he would not have known at first glance that the bloodied teenage boy standing before that blond predator with a readied sword was a victim at all.

His brown hair was longer then it had been at the Burning Plains, hanging divertingly into his eyes, which were unnaturally glazed over and blank. His cheekbones seemed higher and hollowed, like he had aged years in the span of a few months. But there was no mistaking the elfish look of his younger brother.

But, oh, how he wished it wasn't him, standing there with the tip of a deadly sword pointed at the ground— submissively, obediently— as the monster that was partially responsible for the fall of the Riders and the feud between the elder and young sons of Morzan stood calmly before him. He had fought Eragon before, and while he had easily defeated the younger boy, Murtagh knew that, had Eragon been rested and not exhausted from the efforts of battle, their talents would have been matched. Under other circumstances, Eragon could have been able to defeat the pompous witch. But he knew he wouldn't. He knew from his own experiences.

Poena lunged forward, jabbing the point of the azure sword towards Eragon's left side. He deflected it with a twist of his wrist and a solid thrust towards the offensive, forcing Poena's blade back, but refused to attack her further. He stumbled for a moment after the power of his drive, but managed to maintain his defensive stance again, feet a shoulders width apart and knees bent, just as he had been teaching Roran little more then a week ago when he had first been taken.

"Stabilize yourself, Eragon." Poena demanded as she began to sidestep a slow circle around him. His feet mirrored her motion, his daze—almost longing—eyes never leaving hers. "A true warrior is capable of enduring extensive dueling and fatigue, and yet is still able recall the deepest of descriptions without becoming distracted. You're clumsiness is a direct result of your obvious lack of training from those you once called your 'masters'."

"Have I not answered your every inquiry today with unquestionable detail, My Lady?" Eragon replied. There was something in his tone that sent a shiver up Murtagh's spine. It was calm, void of sarcasm and dissent, dark, and—compliant. The last two words rang uncontrollably in his ears. _My Lady. _It had only been a week…should Eragon be at this point in his training already?

"Yes, Eragon, you have been very cooperative. Yet you always seem to manage to dodge the more sensitive subjects. Such as Nasuada. You were close to the Varden leader, were you not?" Poena launched towards her victim again and Eragon blocked the blow, his feeble weapon bending beneath the strength and force of the blue one. He took an uneasy step forward and seemed to raise his own weapon, something dimly shinning through the glaze over his eyes which seemed to have seen the sapphire blade for the first time, ready to finally take the offensive position. But the witch simply caught his flimsy sword on hers and pinned it to the ground while seizing Eragon's wrist with her right. "Defensive stand, Eragon." She reminded him with a growl, and Murtagh almost cried out a warning as the dreaded blue sparks ignited on her fingertips and coursed into the skin of her helpless captive.

The scream was far worse then he had expected or anticipated. It echoed off the red stone walls and seemed to vibrate within Murtagh's chest. He resisted the urge to thrown up. Something seemed to be pulling on his jut, almost dragging him into the room, begging him to break off the pain his brother was enduring. But he knew his orders—under no circumstances was he to interfere with Eragon's training.

The screams stopped shortly and Murtagh managed to pull his eyes back to the scene. Eragon was on his knees, using the sword to hold himself up and breathing heavily. Murtagh could see him shaking despite the heat of the desert they were experiencing. "Get up." Poena barked, and he immediately jumped to his feet. He kept the tip of the sword pointed towards the ground so he would be ready for an attack but was no longer threatening the woman before him. "Yes," He finally answered through gasps for breath. "I was close to Nasuada. And I have already told you I no longer have any loyalty towards that dark-skinned rebel." He blocked a well-aimed blow towards his neck. Murtagh couldn't tell if the edges of the blades had been dulled by magic or not. He did not want to find out. "I have revealed her secrets, what more do you ask for, My Lady?"

Poena had managed to force Eragon's back into a wall and stabbed her sword towards his stomach. Something flashed behind the Rider's eyes again and he caught her blade on his, twisting it till Poena's wrist was curl sharply in an odd direction as he twirled away from the wall and back towards the center of the room. He stagger slightly in his turn and, for the first time, Murtagh noticed a thick, heavy looking iron cuff around his right leg. He suddenly remembered how he had had one, too, once upon a time. He remembered the torment placed on him by Poena's hand after it had weighed down and hindered his escape.

"Fine maneuver, but you are avoiding the conversation." Poena continued, shaking her wrist out almost unnoticeably. "And although I do not believe you have exposed every secret of that 'dark-skinned rebel's', it is not her secrets I wish to hear from you now."

She paused as she struck out towards Eragon's stomach again. He deflected it, but not as easily this time. Murtagh noticed he was suddenly favoring his left leg. "Anything you wish for, Mistress, I'll be happy to oblige."

Poena smiled cruelly, the blue of the sparks at her fingertips dancing in her malicious eyes. "I wish to know more about this Elf you are so fascinated with. I wish to know why you are so spellbound by that cold-hearted, emotionless, ancient crea—"

Murtagh saw it before Poena; saw a sudden fire flare up behind the glazed glass of Eragon's submissive eyes. But no longer were they submissive or glazed, but full of a sudden murderous, lethal light. A yell torn from his throat that slightly resembled a scream of "NOO!" and he charged the witch, sword raised and ready to finally take the offensive position.

Metal clashed on metal and red sparks suddenly mixed with blue as Poena raised the sapphire sword with both hands, clearly stunned to see the pet she had thought was tame suddenly turn around and attack her. The Rider took advantage of her surprise and drove the blade towards her chest, where she was just too slow at blocking it. The tip missed her chest but struck her upper arm, creating a shallow but stinging slice through the material of her outfit. She barely felt the pain, but now a vicious fire erupted within her, and an inhuman snarl escaped her lips. With a harsh swing, its blue blade made contact again with the plain gray of the Rider's sword and created a bend so severe in its blade that it would no longer be useful for anything. Murtagh got the feeling both he and his brother were surprised by her strength, for Eragon faltered for a moment, giving Poena the chance to knock the destroyed sword from his slack hands.

He watched the sword fall as if in slow motion as the determined flare within him died and was replaced with a sudden sense of panic. He looked back up at Poena and was nearly thrown off his feet as she lashed out with her right hand, faster then a striking snake, grabbed him by the neck, and, revealing her unnatural strength again, swung him into a nearby wall as if he were a rag-doll. All the air in Eragon's lungs rushed out from the force of the impact and he sputtered and gasped for breath as dark spots appeared on his vision. No air came as Poena's hand tightened around his throat. His feet were lifted off the ground. His lungs were screaming. Both of his hands were wrestling unsuccessfully with the vice-like grip on his airway, attempting to tear away each ridiculously strong finger.

And then, just when he thought his lungs could hold out no longer, he saw the horrid flash blue course across her hand. It struck him full force where her fingers dug into his neck and the agony of it was worse then anything he had experienced thus far. He could not take in the air to scream, but his entire body, every nerve, was cried out in protest against the pain. The fire burned his throat and melted into his bloodstream, where his terrified, rapidly beating heart pumped its poison throughout his whole body. Not an inch of him was spared from its excruciating touch.

Murtagh watched, horror filling his entire body and freezing him in place, as his younger brother writhed and twisted and struggled against Poena's grasp. His feet were kicking out a foot above the stone floor. His eyes were screwed shut and the cords of his neck stuck out as he gritted his teeth in a silent scream. Murtagh was shaking; with anger or reminiscence of the same pain, he did not know, but before he realized it he had thrown himself into the room. "Poena, that is _enough_!" he managed to force the command past his constricted throat.

The witch turned slowly towards him like something from a nightmare, an evil amusement dancing in her eyes, and smiled cruelly. Eragon's struggling was becoming weaker, his fingers no longer attempting to pry the hand away from his neck. Blue fire twisted around her hand and his throat. She held him there for a moment longer, glaring pointedly at Murtagh, before finally releasing her hold.

Eragon fell disgracefully into a heap on the ground, gasping and coughing uncontrollably as his eyes watered. He managed to climb onto his hands and knees, still gagging on the rush of air his body seemed unable to absorb, but Poena glanced down at him and placed her booted foot on his back. "Down boy." She muttered as she stepped down until her victim crumbled away beneath her, unconscious.

She looked back up at Murtagh, who was staring worriedly at his motionless younger brother, and wiped a blond strand of hair from her face. Suddenly she was smiling, as if Murtagh was here for a pleasant visit or a picnic lunch.

"Murtagh, how lovely to see you again." She purred softly, slithering up to him. She stood looking into his chocolate eyes for a minute before raising an eyebrow. "Do I not get a Hello kiss?" She asked seductively.

He refused to be wavered by her charm, nor to allow her to distract him from what had just happened. "That was grossly unnecessary and below even you, Poena." He growled.

Murtagh knew provoking the sorceress while in such a violent state was dangerous, so therefore he was not surprised when she grabbed his own vulnerable throat with a hiss. The hold was not tight, but threatening enough. All tempting light had left her eyes, which had returned to the same murderous glare they had shown while nearly strangling Eragon. "You of all people, Murtagh," She whispered dangerously, "know better then to question or instruct _me _on _my own _training methods."

Her hand turned a faint shade of blue as the sparks swam beneath then skins surface, threatening to jump forward, but Murtagh simply raised his own eyebrow and stared her straight in the eye. "We both know you won't bring yourself to do it." His tone matched hers; low, dark, and menacing. "Not to me. Not any more. So don't bother me with your empty threats."

He grabbed her wrist and tore her hand from his neck. Her arm fell limply to her side and the two stood in a silence filled with hate and–something else. Finally, Poena broke the silence with a low growl. "What are you doing here, Lord Murtagh?" The last two words dripped with sarcasm and disdain.

"Galbatorix was unsatisfied with your last report. He found it—vague, blunt, and, from what he could gather, unproductive. He's questioning whether you understand the magnitude of this assignment and the importance of meeting the deadline."

Poena's mouth fell slightly open in astonishment and disgusted disbelief. "Were you not lurking in that doorway this entire time? Did you not see the progress I have made in a single week with that little boy?" She was positively shaking with anger.

"Yes," Murtagh said calmly. "I saw him attempt to kill you at the mentioning of his Arya. Now, perhaps I am mistaken, I was unconscious most of my time here, but success in your area generally means they show you more love and devotion then to everything else in this world, is that so?"

"And how long did it take you to cease attacking me at the mention of Nasuada? Because I seem to remember it took me nearly a month to break you of that grotesque obsession. Will you really criticize me for succeeding in my training with your brother a fair three weeks in advance of yours?"

"I criticize no one." Murtagh said emotionlessly, hard eyes never leaving hers. "I am simply the messenger." He thrust a wrinkled sheet of parchment into her hand. She opened it hungrily and scanned her eyes over its text three times before returning her glare to Murtagh's face. But he was no longer looking at her, his focus returning to the unmoving shape of Eragon's broken form. With a flick of her wrist, a guard appeared in the doorway, standing at attention. "Take _that _back to its cell." She motioned towards Eragon. "Lock him in." The guard quickly reacted, grabbing Eragon roughly by the arms and dragging him out the door and away from the worried look of his older brother.

"So I'll ensure I am more thorough in my reports next time, but why is it _you _were sent. Could you honestly not keep yourself away from me for more than a few weeks?"

Murtagh smiled suddenly. "Don't flatter yourself. Galbatorix wants a firsthand account of your successes or failures, but tension in the south has been rising and he regrets he is too preoccupied to come in person. I am here in his stead."

"Then what is it we can do for you?" Poena did not try to hide the mocking politeness in her tone.

"I wish to speak to Eragon—in private. So as to get a feel of how far he has come."

"Well, since you are here on orders from His Majesty, I suppose I must oblige. Do you remember the way to your old cell? Or were you always too unconscious to remember?"

"I remember." Was his only reply as he turned sharply on his heels and disappeared down the hallway, following the blood smears on the ground that lead to the prisoners hold.

* * *

He looked so small, curled up into himself against the wall with his arms suspended by heavy chains above his head, and Murtagh was astonished he had not broken yet. His brother's body was littered with minor cuts and burns along with a number to deep gashes. The black burn mark over his heart stood out sharply on his pale chest, which moved far too slowly and weakly with each breath.

Eragon's neck was already a mess of black and blue, scorched in a bizarre hand-print shape where Poena had held him against the wall and tortured him. His breath came roughly and painfully and Murtagh couldn't take the sound anymore. He reached out and placed a careful hand over his throat and whispered "_waise heill_" The blue and black marks immediately vanished and Eragon suddenly gasped awake, as if the absence of pain had disturbed him from his sleep.

He jumped back against the wall once he recognized the face of the eldest son of Morzan, fear and then anger suddenly filling his eyes. The entire flight across the plains of Alagaesia, Murtagh had been preparing what he would say to Eragon once they came face to face again for the first time since the great betrayal, but for some reason he could not remember any of them at the moment. They sat there awkwardly for a moment before Murtagh finally cleared his throat and muttered uneasily, "I'm not technically supposed to be healing you from any injuries received during training."

"Then why disobey your king now, Oh So Loyal One." Eragon growled at him. The poison in his words stung Murtagh unexpectedly and he forced himself to look away from the accusing glare he was receiving from his younger brother.

"I know this is not what you want to hear, but once I was in the same situation as you. I understand the pain you are going through now, and all I had wished for in that time was that someone would tell me what was going on, drag me out of the darkness, heal me, either with magic or simple words. I needed to know there was something or someone out there who still cared about me."

Eragon's glare never faltered and the venomous tone of his voice was even more calloused then before. "And what makes you think you are the one I want to care about me?"

Murtagh sighed and bowed his head, recognizing the inherited stubbornness in his younger brother's voice. "Eragon," He whispered harshly. His voice was urgent and even a little pleading. "I am defying direct orders from Galbatorix by simply _talking _to you. You _must _put aside your hatred towards me and recognize me as your _only _friend in this place. If you cannot bring yourself to be unbiased for these few minutes, then there is nothing I can do to help you."

The chained teen pulled himself up a little higher off the ground so his eyes were level with the identical brown ones of his brothers and tilted his head to the side. "Help me?" He whispered in surprise.

Murtagh nodded slowly and glanced at the unfasten cell door, checking for eavesdropping guards. "Of course, Eragon. That is the only reason I have come here."

TBC

_Well, I kinda-sorta hate the ending, but I felt I have been an abusive author this last month, so I wanted to post this as quickly as possible. Again, I apologize a __million __times for my lack of updates, and I promise to get the next one in before Christmas. _

_And, as always, I would like to remind you lovely readers that the 'review' box is hungry and longing for more comments to munch on. You wouldn't deny this beautiful creature the right to a decent meal, now would you? ;-) _

_Till Next Time…_


	10. Absolute Desire

_Oh. My. God. This chapter just _would not _come out the way I wanted it to! No, it just wouldn't come out at all! I'm sorry, I thought I knew what I was going to do with this chapter, but halfway through I realized it _sucked _and scratched it. Then I realize that the idea I had instead was impossible to write. All in all, I'm a horrible person, but, personally, I think this chapter is even worse then my deadline-meeting skills! So please forgive me. I _DO _know what I'm doing next chapter…it's gonna be good. And it's gonna come out faster! I promise!_

She feared it was the calm before the storm, the peace and serenity before the swords clash and the blood spills. The sky prophesized the coming woe; a blood-red sunset soon to be followed by the darkness, where the fires of war will block out the stars and hope. Not for the first time, Angela wished she could be just as oblivious to the obvious signs as those around her.

Behind her, the sound of the blacksmith's hammer striking metal filled the air. She could feel the sparks ignite in the fading sky, smell the smoke from the fire and the sweat from the blacksmith's brow. New weapons were being forged while old ones were repaired, preparing for the coming attack on Belatona. An attack that, it seemed, would have to be done without their leader.

Eragon Shadeslayer had been missing for over a week and a half now, with no wind or whisper of his whereabouts. Angela knew a search party had been sent out, consisting of the best the Varden could sacrifice at the time, knowing a direct attack from the Empire during their Rider's absence was more than just likely. Arya had taken charge of the small group of warriors, with Roran, Eragon's cousin, at her side. Saphira, of course, would not be left out of her own Rider's rescue. The destruction she would have caused on being told she could not go…well, frankly, Angela thought Saphira was being extremely merciful towards the rest of humanity, knowing how a dragon's temper can boil over faster then their teeth can tear and their flames can burn.

But was rescue possible? Not often would Angela, as hot-headed as she is, truly question the ability of the Elven princess, nor that of the famous Roran Stronghammer. Yet from every story, every myth, every fantasy and nightmare, even her own first meeting with a Rysam, that had haunted her mind since first hearing of the Rysam, one thought settled in the deepest—Death. Death was what awaited the unfortunate victims of their cruel games, their impossibly impious rounds of sibling rivalry in their never-ending battle for power and honor.

The Werecat Solembum stalked back and forth at Angela's feet, his powerful shoulders rolling with each step and his large paws leaving intimidating paw prints in the dust. He had been growing restless over the last couple weeks, constantly shifting from human to cat form and then back again, as if unable to make up his mind for once, and became even more secluded then was characteristic for him. Angela knew why. The Rysam were the natural enemy of the Werecats, and the same sense of hostility filled the veins of those spark-bearers at the sight of their shape-shifting foes. The news that the Rysam had in fact survived all these years without arising notice or suspicion, and were now placing their meddling hands in the middle of the greatest calamity Alagaesia had seen in nearly a century made the stead-fast and all-knowing Werecat fretful and anxious.

Angela shared his anxiety, and as she stared into the distance, beyond the sun already beginning to set in the west and bringing in the night, Angela felt the cold fingers of doubt run their cruel nails up her spine. He hands clenched and unclenched, longing for something to do but unsure of how to assist.

Solembum stopped in his tracks, eyes and ears pinned on the far-off direction of Leona Lake. The hairs on his back suddenly arched up and he admitted a powerful, threatening _hiss, _his fangs barred ominously at the silent north-western land. Angela, too, stared worriedly towards the unseen lake as she bit her lips and furrowed her eyebrows.

"Yes, I hear them too." She said absently to the glowering Werecat. "They're coming."

* * *

Eragon blinked slowly, trying to eliminate the thin layer of hazy film that seemed to be covering both his eyes and ears. Once, a long time ago, he had trusted Murtagh. Admittedly, even now he wished to feel that same bond of faith and reliance that had once existed between the two, making them like siblings before the news of their brotherhood even became known. Yet he could not keep the image that had been imprinted into his mind, replaying on a constant roll of nightmares every night, of that fateful moment on the Burning Plains where he recognized the familiar hand-and-a-half sword and tore the polished and blood-soaked helm from his brother's head. At that instant, all hope that that bond of trust could be rebuilt had shattered.

And now, kneeling before him with a fantastic mask of pure concern, sat the man who had betrayed Eragon to the enemy, who had cut him deeper then any sword, knife, or dragon-tooth could possibly reach. And that man was once again asking for his trust.

"I can't give it to you." Eragon said, his throat searing with each syllable as he forced the words over the rough, water-deprived patches. "There was a time when I might have, but not now, not here of all places. I saw the way you looked at her, Murtagh. With fear and fondness, desire and dread. You still consider her your Mistress, don't you?"

Murtagh looked slightly taken-aback as he held back the glare his wished to give his captive brother. Eragon no longer cared if he was causing him pain to hear this. Pain had taken on an entirely new meaning for the young Rider over the last two weeks. Pain was inescapable, yet the blunt recognition of certain elements could work to in turn blunt the edge of the blade when, inevitably, the truth will come to cut you down. Why must we all tip-toe around the clear facts in order to gain a few painless hours before the hurt unavoidably will return?

"You've been here for half a month, Eragon. I was here for four." Murtagh said curtly. "I've seen you oblige to that witch's demands as easily as you once would to Saphira's or Arya's. Now take that need, that absolute desire, to do exactly as she wishes and times it by eight. _That_ is what I must endure every day. My simple act of letting you go on the Burning Plains took every ounce of my defiance, for Poena had wished for me to bring you to her. So yes, somewhere within me I still regard her as my 'mistress', but you are my brother. My blood. And I do not wish for you to have to undergo what I once did. What I still do."

"Well, you're too late, for I already have. And like you said, I am taking that need, that 'absolute desire', to do exactly as she wishes and I'm multiplying it by eight, but it is far from helpful in gaining my confidence. Perhaps you are truly trying to help me, perhaps you're not, but I wouldn't put it passed Poena to reel you in on a trick. Psychological torture is just as brutal and messy as physical. Set me up, build up a false hope that escape may actually be possible, and then let it come crashing down on me. I will not risk that, especially not with someone who still holds her in such high regard, consciously or subconsciously."

"_That _is your problem, Eragon!" Murtagh spat, suddenly angry. "You cannot over think every situation you land yourself in. Sometimes, you just have to jump into the battle and hope you come out in one piece. And don't—"

"Why are you still here Murtagh?" Eragon growled. He had averted his eyes, glaring off to the side with his jaw firmly set.

The Red Rider leaned forward, demanding Eragon's attention. "I'm still here because I'm quite possibly risking my life to speak to you and I will _not _let you ignore me. It was not the king's orders to have me hand-deliver his notice. I am meant to be on my way south, to Belatona, as a matter of fact, to intersect your Varden in their attempts to take the city. And while I am clearly wasting my time here, the elves are descending down the Ramr River towards Uru'baen, and I should probably be there as well."

Murtagh's words were becoming clipped and harsh, his frustration and patients rising with each syllable. But Eragon barely heard what he was saying. The teen was fighting off the surrounding darkness that threatened to overtake him once again. His entire body was throbbing. His heart stung and burned with every beat. It was all he could do to grasp onto a few key words. _The Varden…Belatona…interception…they're going to be attack! I'm not there to help them. _

"And while I would love to be able to be in three places at once," Murtagh continued with a hint of mockery and dissent in his voice. "Even _my_ power isn't that great, and my current schedule does not exactly allow me much time to come here and argue morals with my younger brother. So be very grateful that I chose helping you over bashing in as many elf heads as possible and ridding all of Alagaesia of those tree-hugging, cowardice pests."

Now Eragon glanced up, having caught the hatred and disgust his brother felt towards the elves from his tone. He narrowed his glare and began to try saying something, but Murtagh simply laughed at him, shaking his head and looking down. "But that's right. You like them, don't you, Eragon? You like those ancient creatures who ran off with their tails between their legs when the circumstances became too hot and tough for them to handle. You might as well be one by now, judging by your looks. Oh, and I forgot." He said with another laugh. "You love one of them, don't you? How is that coming along for you, little brother? Isn't it along the same lines as having a relationship with a tree? Unemotional, unyielding, heartless—"

It had always astounded Eragon, the amount of strength he could find within him when the cause is great or dire enough. How he has been able to do such things he believed were beyond him when his passion drove him beyond his normal capacity. For instance, at this very moment, when he barely had the strength to keep his own eyelids from sliding shut and succumbing to the comforting blankness of the dark, he somehow managed to find the strength to bring a snarl to his lips and lift his sore and injured legs to kick out with everything he was worth.

He felt his heel collide with Murtagh's chest and felt the air rush out of his brother's lungs. Murtagh was thrown backwards, crashing into the table at the center of the room, the only piece of furniture in the red stone cell. Eragon barely winced at the sound of breaking wood and Murtagh's gasp of surprise and pain.

"You are such a hypocrite, Murtagh! You speak of my pathetic love for 'the enemy', but how is you relationship with Nasuada going? You've been in love with the Varden's leader since you first saw her, we all know it. And you can't find a more impossible match in all of Alagaesia; the Varden's leader and the King's greatest servant. So don't speak to me of _my _infatuations! At least I am not in love with the one person I will have to kill in the near future. So spot picking these childish fights. You're the _older_ brother, so start acting like it instead of an immature git!"

_WHAM!_

Murtagh's fist struck home before Eragon had even registered what was happening. His head jerked back and slammed into the stone wall as Murtagh's hand made contact with his jaw, thrusting upwards. He saw black for a moment, dotted with an amazing rainbow of colors as his head swung down to rest on his chest. He groaned as the small amount of adrenaline he had felt earlier sapped away from him.

A moment of painful silence passed between them. Eragon spat blood onto the floor, trying to rid his mouth of its metallic taste. Murtagh stood and glared down at his younger brother. "I was trying to be the mature one." He spat back. "Trying to be the older brother and protect my family. But you—you are the immature one here, Eragon, and if it takes another two weeks in the Hell Hole for you to grow up then maybe I should allow it."

Eragon was about to retort, his bloody mouth beginning to form an argument, before they both heard a small laugh from the doorway. "Now children, play nicely." Came the familiar mocking, condescending voice. "I would hate to see either of you get hurt by anything other then my hand."

Poena strolled in, her blond hair already restored to its perfect braid after the fight she had had moments ago with Eragon. Both Riders froze, taken aback by her sudden appearance and their instinctual feeling of fear. Eragon pulled himself off the ground into a straighter sitting position and Murtagh squared his shoulders and brushed a strand of dark hair from his face. Neither of their eyes left her.

"Now, Murtagh," Poena cooed as she came up close to him, their bodies nearly touching. Eragon could see Murtagh fighting with himself over whether to back away or lean closer into her. "I think Eragon would agree with me that you've overstayed your welcome. Clearly he does not desire your assistance to escape from here, and I agree with him that a trick would leave quite an effect on his pride. I should remember that for future trainees."

Suddenly, Eragon felt his heart sink. He had been so sure Poena had put Murtagh up to tricking him into believing he could escape, but now that he knew his brother's offer had been genuine, he felt the devastating realization that he had missed his only chance.

Murtagh seemed to finally win his internal battle and stepped away from the witch. "Then I'll be going." He said bluntly, lacking any emotion as he tried to sidestep around Poena.

He was jerked to a stop as the sorceress grabbed his wrist and he spun around. He grip was strong and he could see in her eyes what she was about to do. He didn't bother attempting to resist.

"Would you like to see what I am attempting to achieve with you, Eragon?" She asked with a glance down to the chained boy. She didn't wait for his response. Her gaze moved back to Murtagh, a murderous glint in her eyes. "I am attempting to create—indifference."

The blue spark burst from her fingers and entwined themselves around the Red Rider's wrist. Eragon watched as his brother visibly stiffened, yet Murtagh's face remained an emotionless mask. He glared at Poena as the blue glow encompassed his hand. The veins that ran through his arm turned a vivid sapphire color. He began to shake, so slightly that Eragon was convinced it had simply been a shift of weight. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply through the pain.

And then Poena released her grasp and Murtagh relaxed, not even shuddering away or gasping in pain. He simply remained where he was standing, glaring defiantly at the witch. Poena tilted her head to the side and observed the Red Rider curiously. "You are out of practice, Murtagh. You could still feel it."

"Sometimes it is good to feel pain. To know you're still human and have yet to turn into a monster like you." His words were crisp and biting as he finally managed to turn away from her and head towards the door. He stopped at the threshold of the cell and looked back at Eragon, pity and regret returning to his eyes. He said nothing, though.

"Enjoy your flight to Belatona." Poena said cheerfully after him as he tore himself away from the cell. "I hear it's just _lovely _there in the summer. Don't have too much fun killing Eragon's friends."

She turned back to Eragon once Murtagh's footsteps could no longer be heard, and leaned down over him. The room turned an eerie blue as her fingers sparkled once more. "So Eragon, how long do _you _think it will take you to no longer feel the pain? Lets find out, shall we."

* * *

The heat of the desert sun beat down upon his shoulders like the weight of the sky. His feet dragged over the scorching sand dunes, tripping over the occasional loose rocks or uneven mounds. Roran was absolutely exhausted; having sleep deprived himself over the last two weeks worrying about his cousin. His brother. He had barely been able to force himself to eat either. And now he was beginning to feel the toll of his decisions.

He plopped down onto the sand, completely spent from the two-week trek across the Hadarac desert. And they had found nothing. Not a sign or a hint of where Eragon had been taken. There wasn't even solid evidence that the Rysam's lair would be hidden amongst the yellow dunes. He put his head in his hands, sighing with desperation and regret. _If I had just been stronger—_

Hot air wafted through his hair and Roran jumped. It was not coming from the breezeless desert, and it was hotter, if possible, then the air he was breathing. He turned his head to see Saphira standing directly behind him, her hot breath rising from her nostrils in curls of smoke. For a moment he was eager to step back, remembering how she had so easily pinned him down a few weeks before and how viciously sharp her teeth and talons could be.

But one look into her sapphire eyes, just as desperate and pleading as Roran imagined his had been, and he relaxed, understanding the pain she was going through despite their difference in species. She lowered her head and blew on him once again, and this time, somehow, the heat of it was comforting, like the embrace of a friend. He closed his eyes and breathed in the faint scent of ash.

_I'm sorry. _He heard the words vibrate within his head, spoken from a being so powerful and wild yet so sincere that it almost hurt. _I should never have believed you would ever allow my Rider to be taken without putting up a fight. He was your nest-mate and kin, and from what I know of you, Roran Stronghammer, I know you would never lay down your hammer when your family is in danger. You proved that in your unparalleled quest for your Katrina. So I apologies for my attack on you back in Melian. I was distraught and—scared. _

Roran could feel how hard it must have be for such a proud creature as Saphira to admit she was sorry, and especially to confess she was scared of anything. He was surprised by her apology and suddenly found himself gaping at her, her words not truly connecting to their meaning yet. Then finally he managed to snap out of his amazed trance and respond. "Thank you, Saphira. Your apology means more to me then anything, knowing how hard it must have been for you to express it. But it was wasted. You had every right to attack me back there. You have every right to hate me now. Because you were correct, there was more I could have done. I could have saved him. But I wasn't strong enough."

Saphira turned her head so she could examine him with on giant, intense blue eye. For a moment she was silent, and Roran feared that maybe she would agree with him and rip his head off right then and there. But then she spoke, so quietly and honestly that Roran barely believed it was her inside his head.

_If Arya fears these creatures, then so do I, and so should every being in this land, for neither that elf nor I can scare easily. And the fact that you stood up against one, fighting however strongly or passionately, is a feat I'm afraid not many men could accomplish. And therefore you will accept my apology, for it is as genuine an apology as I most likely will ever give._

Roran nodded. "Then I accept it." He said simply. "And thank you."

For a moment Roran could feel the connection Saphira had with Eragon. He could feel her relief that her apology had been acknowledged and the need, the absolute desire, to keep going, despite the needs of the other men in their search party. "You wish to go on?" Roran asked pointlessly. He already knew the answer. It was the same on he would have given if asked.

_More then anything. But I have given my pledge to Arya to remain. _

"Yes, but I believe I am beginning to feel the same impatient towards these men as you, Saphira." The elf seemed to have materialized out of the glare of the sun, standing behind Roran with her ebony hair tied up off of her neck. Both Roran and Saphira stared at her, waiting for an explanation to her blunt statement. "At the rate we are traveling, it will most definitely be too late for Eragon if we ever reach the Rysam's lair. The desert extends further then these men are capable of covering, and while I don't wish to leave them here alone, I also can barely stand their slow pace."

_What are you suggesting, Arya?_

"I'm suggesting that you, Roran, and I—if Roran is up to it, of course—fly ahead of the rest to search for the Rysam. Of course, we will not engage them without these men as backup, for we will never be able to defeat them alone, but I fear that if we wait much longer there will be nothing _to _save."

Saphira growled, showing her razor ivory teeth. _Don't you dare say that, elf! _She warned.

"Saphira, you must accept that it is a possibility that Eragon will not be the same as he once was. But nonetheless, we must reach him soon, and going ahead of the group seems to be the only option we have. Are you up to it, Roran?"

Roran squared his shoulders and said with as much vigor as possible, "Of course! You'd have to bury me under the sand to keep me from coming along."

Arya nodded. "Then it is settled. We leave at one. Captain!" She called over her shoulder at another man, who quickly came over and stood at attention. "Stronghammer, Saphira, and I will fly ahead of the rest so as to cover more ground and save as much time as possible. Continue leading your men east across the desert. We will meet up again soon, and once we find where the Rysam are hiding, we will return to direct the rest of you there. We shouldn't be more then a few days, a week at most. Just continue moving and searching until we return."

"Of course, My Lady." He said before turning away to relay the news to his men. Saphira lowered herself closer to the ground so Roran could scramble up her side into the saddle. Arya leapt gracefully onto her back in front of him, holding on to the ivory spike before the saddle. Saphira barely waited for them to be settled and strapped into the seat of the saddle before launching into the sky. The crowd of obnoxiously slow men below shrank into a tiny patch of color on the endless sea of yellow sand. All six eyes scanned the continuously similar ground below, searching with unspoken, yet universally felt desperation to find their fallen hero.

TBC

_UGH! FINALLY! I thought this chapter would never be finished! And, of course, I spent a majority of my time writing this the day before my first semester finals start, so now I must leave Eragon, Poena, and the gang and instead focus on Physics, American History, and English. But never fear, once finals are over I have a three day weekend and no homework, so I'm going to be a writing fool! But, of course, if you want a faster update, you can always express your desires to my lovely review box! It loves your comments—and so do I 3 Until next time…_


	11. Possibility Vs Probability

…_Yeah…I've been bad…really, really bad...I'm so sorry for taking so long to get this out. Life has been extremely hectic lately. Show season started, so I've been spending all my free time at the barn riding and whatever time I have left over after that studying for school. But I know no excuse is good enough! And, I must admit, I did waste a large amount of time watching Doctor Who (which is SO FREAKING GOOD!) But NEVER FEAR! Here is chapter eleven and chapter twelve is already in the works! This chapter focuses more on Roran, Arya, and Saphira then on Eragon and Poena, actually, so I apologize for that as well. God, I really need to stop saying I'm sorry!_

_Enjoy!!_

An hour. A week. A month. Years. Decades. Millenniums. How long had he been waiting? Waiting longingly, just staring at the blank redness of the cell door. Had only three weeks passed since he first felt her touch? Had it only been twenty-one days ago that he first felt her lips on his? That cool, refreshing taste of life hidden within her deadly kiss?

That kiss. How many times had he received it now? How many times had he died at her hand only to be raised again from the dark embrace of death? Twice a day? Twice an hour? Time is mirage in this place; one moment it feels as if mere seconds have passed, yet in others it seems like a lifetime. Could his month be up soon? Could Galbatorix be in this very building, hidden away in the heart of the Hadarac, at this very moment, waiting to receive his newest Rider into the ranks of his army?

How long had it been since the cell door had been slammed shut? How long since she had left? Far too long ago. Where was she? Had she forgotten him? Had she given up on him?

_STOP IT! _

The questions ceased their perplexing dance within his head. It was as if an open door to a loud, chaotic party had suddenly been banged shut, cutting off the sound and leaving the cell eerily quiet. He could hear himself breathing again, each shallow breath as loud as a scream in the isolated silence. It consumed him. All he could hear was his steadily quickening intakes of air and the rising beat of his heart. Like the drums of a war or funeral march. He was still unsure which it was. It was growing louder. And louder. It pounded on his eardrums. He raised his hands to protect his pointed ears from the sound. The beat forced its way through. His body vibrated with it. Louder and louder and louder.

"STOP!"

Eragon forced himself to open his eyes and breathe deep enough to steady his racing heart. He forced himself to think, think of anything, for if he stopped thinking the questions would return. The war drums would return. He forced himself to relax and concentrate on reality. In other words, he forced his way back into sanity.

The line between insanity and reality had always been a solid one, one Eragon had never intended to cross. Yet now the line was fuzzed and faded, like a painting left too long in the rain. Eventually, the defining boundaries of that line began to smear and the two worlds mixed as one, Eragon stuck in the middle of Pandemonium, fighting to stay on the side of the light. But the darkness was ever so inviting. In the dark, he could escape it all, just hide away in the shadows where the blue sparks and scales couldn't reach him. Maybe his own mind was his jail, not this cell.

He jerked his head up from where it had been resting against his curled-up knees, listening intently at the world beyond the red stone walls. It's amazing how isolation can heighten ones senses. Even his elven ears had never before been this vigilant of every sound around him.

Someone was coming. The heels of their boots made a distinct _thud _sound each time they struck the ground, both graceful and forceful at the same time. Eragon pulled himself shakily onto his feet, ignoring the spots of darkness and dizziness as he ran a hand through his matted hair. Dried blood flaked away from the gash across his forehead. His empty stomach seared as he straightened, the utter agony of hunger scrapping relentlessly at his insides.

The footsteps came closer, just outside his cell door. There was a pause. Two voices exchanged words. One was low and gruff while the other was higher, fluid, and authoritative. Eragon pushed himself off the wall, forcing his unwilling legs to hold his weight as he heard keys jingle and slide into the lock. The door skimmed open, the light outside nearly blinding the Rider. Once his eyes could finally look into the glare of the firelight, Eragon saw her outline, defined by the red leather she wore that matched the stones of the wall behind her.

And Eragon smiled.

"Poena." He managed to whisper before his legs finally gave out on him. He pitched forward, falling onto his knees as black dots attacked his vision. He would have fallen, face-first, into the ground had she not been there to catch him. Her hands, gloved unlike they'd been over the past three weeks, held his shoulders and kept him upright. Eyes the color of the Anora River in the winter searched his face before her hands released him. He fell to his side, dizzy, the world becoming blurred and fuzzy in its sideways view.

The sorceress stood and glanced around the cell with all the intensity of a lightening storm. Her sight fell on the unfortunate guard by the door, standing steadfast at attention. "Has he been eating?" She demanded. "Have you been feeding him properly?"

"Of course, Mistress." The guard replied hastily.

"How much?"

The guard frowned, weighing the possibility that the truthful answer might just be the _wrong _answer to give. "The usual amount, Mistress. Once and day. Bread and cheese and occasionally a piece of fruit. And the water jug is always kept full on your command."

Poena took an intimidating step towards the guard, stripping the gloves from her hands. "Once a day? Simply bread and cheese?"

The guard hesitated. "Yes, Mistress, as you have ordered for every other prisoner."

Her hand slashed across his face faster then the lung of a snake. Three red gashes appeared alone his cheek from where her unnecessarily long nails broke his skin, blood instantly smearing across his jaw line. "You fool!" Poena growled as the man cowered away. "This boy is not like any other prisoner! He is in _intensive _training! Twice as hard and rigorous as any other trainee! Therefore it is logical that he should get _twice _as much, is it not? IS IT?!"

She lashed out again, this time grabbing his throat as the room cackled with blue lightening and the screams of the unfortunate guard. "Your lack of common sense is killing him and I cannot train a dead man!"

"Poena."

Somehow, the whispered word was heard over the yells of pain from the guard and of anger from the sorceress. Poena released her victim and turned to the teenage boy who had whispered her name, trying to push himself off the ground. His eyes were glazed and unfocused and they darted from side to side like a lost child looking for his way home. She went to him, grabbing his upper arm to help him sit up against the wall. His head rolled back as his vision wavered slightly, the blond woman before him sliding in and out of focus.

"Easy, Eragon, try not to move so fast." She demanded. She ran her hand over his forehead and Eragon instinctively tried to flinch away, but something was gentle about her touch as she examined the gash along his hairline. He followed her eyes, void of emotion yet still hard as ice.

"So much for your training today, I'm afraid. Unfortunately, you may very well die by starvation then by my hand, which we cannot afford." She said the words softly, almost as if she were saying them to herself. "There is not much I can do for this, but—" She leaned forward, a hand behind the Riders neck to support it as she pressed her lips against his. It was brief, for there was little the _basvita _could do for the battered son of Morzan, yet Poena felt it begin to heal the most unfathomable of her inflictions. The wisps of smoke from the back of her throat were tepid in the unfamiliar circumstances.

She pulled away and was glad to see Eragon's eyes were once again focused and his breath came to him easier. The gash along his forehead had not been healed, but then again, it had not been by her hand that he had received it.

Poena stood quickly. "On your feet, Rider." She demanded as she turned away. Eragon pushed himself up and was surprised to find he could stand without falling over. Poena was eyeing him over her shoulder as if he might collapse and she would have to catch him again. He gave her a quick smile in hopes of assuring her he would be fine. She didn't return it.

"Eragon will be dining with me tonight." She told the sentinel as he struggled to his feet, gasping for air. "There had better be a competent guard at this post when the Rider returns or may the gods pity he who falsely claims to be proficient." She reached out her hand to grasp and guide Eragon's shaking shoulders. "In other words, I would not want to be caught in my sight once I'm finished eating, if I were you."

The guard looked genuinely terrified as the witch swept away, one arm still slung around Eragon's shoulders.

* * *

Days had passed since the trio of dragon, elf, and human separated from the troubling and lethargic warriors in search for their Rider. Yet as the first hours turned into days and the sun sank and rose in its never ending cycle, the groups already reduced moral began to fall at an alarming rate. They had already covered the southern base of the Hadarac, flying with the Beor Mountains just within eyesight to their right, Saphira's unbridled speed sweeping them forward until the sands gave way to sparse brush and small trees within a matter of hours. But there was no sign of any life below. No indication of Eragon's whereabouts.

They began to turn around; starting a few more leagues north so as to scan over the middle of the desert, but their pace was decreasing rapidly now. Saphira absolutely refused to stop and rest, landing on the ground for mere minutes at a time to allow her companions to stretch their legs before taking off back into the relentless heat of the desert. But her assurances that she was fine did not fool her riders. Arya and Roran could see her fatigue in the droop of her tail and the lengthened intervals of her wing strokes. Despite her mighty masquerade, the dragon was exhausted.

"Saphira, I can't stay silent about this any longer." Arya yelled over the suffocating wind. "Land and rest before you crash! You cannot help Eragon enervated, and an hour respite will not affect our search too much."

_I can—go on.—I have enough—strength—to keep going._

"Listed to yourself!" Roran called from the back of the saddle. "You can hardly speak! Please, Saphira, we can find him faster if you are rested. Just land for a minute!"

They could both feel the great dragon's anger grow, her frustration at her own weakness battling her obvious desire to relax her straining wings. But finally Saphira resigned to their wishes and angled downwards towards the yellow dunes. Her landing was less graceful then usual as she stumbled onto her front knees from the impact. Roran and Arya quickly dismounted, stripping off the saddle and their baggage to make the dragon more comfortable. Saphira snarled to herself the whole time, disgusted by her limitations.

_I will rest my wings for only a minute, and then—_Her thought was cut off by a monstrous yawn, showing her dangerously sharp teeth and forked tongue to the sky as she emitted a column of lazy yellow flame. The air became even hotter, if it were imaginable possible, from the pressure of her exhausted roar and the heat of the fire. Once it had passed, Saphira shook her azure head and spread her wings. _Enough rest. _She snapped. _We move on._

Roran sighed as he moved his hands away from his face where they had been pointlessly lifted in hopes of protecting himself from the heat of her yawn. "Saphira, please, you cannot go on like this. For days you have been flying non-stop without water or food or rest. Even you need those simple things in life in order to continue, I am sure, so—"

He stopped as he felt a hand fall on his shoulder and turned to see Arya watching him with a look that plainly said _there is no point. _ The elf turned back to the dragon, who was eyeing the two with anger and frustration ablaze behind the growing film of fatigue. Arya nodded once, regretfully, before muttering, "_Slytha." _

At the last moment, Saphira seemed to recognize the ancient word for sleep, for a faint hiss escaped her teeth before her entire body quaked with the force of the magic and her muscles became limp against her control. She had drifted into a profound and imperturbable sleep before she had even collapsed into the warm, shifting sands.

Roran gasped in surprise, taken aback by the sudden act of magic from the elf maiden. He gave a little nervous laugh. "I suppose that's one way to get a dragon to sleep."

Arya rounded on him, her eyes as sharp as her blade's edge and glowing with all the intensity of fire. "What I have done is inexcusable! To use magic on a dragon against her will and knowledge makes me little better then the monsters of the Forsworn." The steel in her eyes then melted away and she shook her head once, ebony hair falling across her face. "But I have done it for Saphira's own health. She would not have made it much further, especially if the Rysam detected our flight and try to engage us in a conflict." She seemed to be trying to convince herself of the benevolent reasons behind her action more so then Roran, so he remained quiet, unsure what to say. For a moment the only sounds came from Saphira's sleepy breaths and the blistering winds howling over the surface of the desert.

Finally, Arya looked up with her usual regal and emotionless expression. She glanced up at the sun, calculating from its height, position, and the shadow Roran cast that it must be near eleven in the morning. The hottest time of the day was yet to come. "We might as well make use of this hour to rest a bit before continuing." She said. She took up the water skin with its quickly diminishing contents and tossed it to her human companion, who fumbled pathetically before catching it with both hands.

Roran took a swig of the tepid water and allowed himself to fall backwards into a sand hill. The surface sand was hot from the glare of the sun and it momentarily burned his skin before he burrowed his arms deeper beneath its cover. Out of the corner of his eye, Roran could see Arya settle herself down a few feet away, fingers unconsciously tracing along the shape of her sword's hilt. Despite her sense of impassiveness and anonymity, the mere human farm boy turned miller turned warrior could see through her inert façade. He saw the worry lining the edges of her flaming, steel eyes. He noticed the hesitations and anxiety that accompanied her every movement. _Not that I'd been watching her…_He clarified, mainly for Eragon's sake. But nonetheless, her masquerade was not quite as well contrived as usual, and Roran could see through it as clearly as an eagle sees through the summer air. The regal, impassive, and undyingly eternal elf was scared.

The heat beat down on him without mercy. A sweat formed on his brow and no matter how many times he attempted to swipe it away with the brush of his sleeve, it never seemed to leave him. The air was sluggish and didn't seem to make it all the way to his lungs, and the bit that did scorched his windpipe and left it feeling burnt and raw. He squinted, trying to block out as much light from the growing sun as possible, and suddenly a towering shape came into existence, dancing along the horizon in the heat waves. The only break in the otherwise impregnable desert.

"What is that, along there?" Roran pointed at the darkened form as he glanced over at Arya. The elf looked up from her ponderings—_about what, I wonder?—_and followed the stretch of his arm out along the horizon.

"Those are the Du Fells Nangoroth, the mountains of the desert."

"There are mountains in the center of the Hadarac Desert?" He said in awe.

"Yes, Roran, those would be what you are looking at." Arya snapped before quickly closing her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. The tips of her fingers massaged her temple as she exhaled slowly. "Forgive me." She said softly. "I am simply frustrated with our current situation."

"I don't think you are the only one." Roran muttered as he glanced over at the slumbering dragon. He swiped the back of his hand over his brow, which had become slick with salty sweat. He noticed the tips of the elf's raven bangs sticking to her forehead as well. Her usually pale features were now tinted a sun-bleached red.

"It feels as though the further into the desert we go, the hotter it becomes." He mused more to himself then the seemingly passive elf beside him. "You say these Rysam creatures thrive from the heat?"

"Yes, that is the theory my kind has developed. Their first inhabitance was in the belly of the volcano on Vroengard, known now as Doru Areaba. After its eruption, however, its own volcanic rock sealed it off, trapping the heat inside. If the Rysam survived the explosion, as it seems they have, then they would have abandoned Vroengard in search of a place that could satisfy their need for heat. That is why the Hadarac is our best bet. There is no more miserable of a place in all of Alegasia."

"Hmm…" Roran leaned back in the sand, his eyes still on the Du Fells Nangoroth. "Has anyone ever searched the mountains? For life of any kind, perhaps?"

"No." Arya dismissed the idea immediately. "The rocks are uninhabitable. The proximity of the sun would scorch the skin or hide of any creature that remains upon it for too long."

Suspicion arose within Roran as he looked over at Arya. "What if that creature could survive inside the pit of an active volcano?"

Arya's eyebrows furrowed as she thought through what her human companion was suggesting. "I suppose—I actually had never given the Du Fells Nangoroth much thought before. I've been so myopic, thinking solely of Eragon that I had forgotten to think of the Rysam."

"So is it possible he could be up there?" Roran felt his anxiety rise. He could feel the adrenaline beginning to pulse through his worn-out veins. _So close…we could be _so _close! _

Arya hesitated for a moment. "It is—possible—but not very _probable_, I'm afraid. If he were being held by the Rysam within the Du Fells Nangoroth, then the chances that Eragon has survived the heat for three weeks in extremely unlikely. And I'm not sure the odds of it warrant enough merit for us to risk flying there."

To Roran, it seemed that the elf had once again become lost in her thoughts as she weighed the pros and cons on the situation to herself. He attempted to snap her out of her thoughts by asking the single questions that had been dancing along the edge of his mind since first seeing the mountains. "Is there any way to safely find out?"

"I can cast a simple surveillance spell on the rocks to see if there is or was any life among them. However, I would not work your hopes up too much, Roran Stronghammer. The possibility—"

"Yes, is low, I understand. But can you _try?" _His frustration, anxiety, anticipation levels were mounting to an unhealthy stage. His heart was beating in his ears. The hot air was still not reaching his lungs quickly enough.

The elf closed her eyes and took a deep breath before beginning to speak in words so foreign and alien to Roran, they nearly felt wrong. "S_yno mehi vidao vid vysom inus moena tof mons monti. Quaero viota inter fells_."

For a moment, nothing seemed to happen. Roran waited, the hot air pressing down on him with almost unbearable pressure. He could hear the heavy breaths of the unconscious dragon behind him. And then, suddenly, Arya opened her eyes.

Her eyes, once such a deep, beautiful shade of emerald green, where now glazed over with thick gold paint. She had no distinguished pupil or iris, no whites of the eyes or the mysterious, knowing glint that often sparkled in their depths. Just shallow, meaningless gold.

And then she gasped, visibly flinching away from something as she slammed her eyelids shut. "_Solvi veneficean. Tribo mehi tergaem meusos oculi!_" She commanded hastily. Roran watched, not knowing whether he should attempt to help or allow the elf to do it herself. Not that he was particularly successful or learned in the areas of magic.

Arya kept her eyes tightly shut with her head bent down. Roran could hear her breathing slowly but surely begin to level until it was normal again. Finally, she looked up, her eyes the normal color of the forest trees in high spring. But they looked—surprised, scared, appalled—

"It's impossible!"

"What is it?" Roran asked, scampering to her side. "What did you see? Did you see Eragon? Is someone living up there?" The questions tumbled out of his mouth without going through a thorough thought process. He could not hold them back.

Arya turned away, looking instead at the now towering and intimidating mountains in the distance. "No." She said slowly, as if her mind was as far away as the Du Fells Nangoroth. "Not some_one. _All of them. Tons. Roran," She turned back to the human warrior, worry and disbelief so uncharacteristic of her dancing in her features. "There's an entire _city _of them!"

TBC

_Actually, my original plan was to combine chapters eleven and twelve into one mega-chapter, but that would have been near a million pages long, annoyingly on-going, and I kind of liked where it ended here as opposed to where it was going to end. Also, that adds one more chapter to the story, for, unfortunately, the end _is _near. Only a few more chapters left of my first fanfiction. *sigh* It's been a hell-of-a-ride. But for now, please feel free to feed the ever-hungry review box. He appreciates your comment, questions, concerns, and critiques oh so very much =) As do I!_


	12. Regret, Relief, Remorse

_Hey guys. I am extremely sorry for the ridiculously long break between this chapter and the last, but I hit a bit of a rough spot in my life over the last couple of months and really had to sort through that before I could find time to sit down and dedicate as much attention to this story as it deserves. I believe this chapter is a bit longer then any before it, so hopefully that will make up a little bit for the lack of updates recently. However, school is now out, which means I have another three months of free writing time before my senior year begins (scary!) Anyway, please enjoy this chapter, for it's one of the last unfortunately. _

The exact size of his red-stone prison still escaped Eragon, even after the three or so weeks in which he had been confined behind its cool walls. The only three rooms he was routinely taken to were his cell, the _interium, _and the round cushioned room were he was often brought back from death's greedy embrace, and yet the building seemed to emit a feeling of infinity. Each hallway seemed to him to be a different hallway. Each training room in which Poena would test him in sword, hand-to-hand combat, and simple stamina exercises appeared to be new to him as well. Could it be that the building never ended? Could he get lost so easily lost within this immeasurable maze if he left the side of his just as immeasurably dangerous guide?

He dare not leave her now, though. Her hand, gripping his shoulder in support, direction, and restraint all at once, clenched around his shoulder, her bare fingers digging into his bare skin. He watched those fingers out of the corners of his eye, yet thankfully he saw no blue light illuminate the hall. How quickly could she ignite the spark should he attempt to shrug away her grasp?

But it was not simply his ever-growing fear of the Rysam's greatest weapon that held him by her side. There was something about her presence and touch, as harsh as it was against his flesh, which seemed to comfort him. The only being he knew, and who knew him in return, in this new world.

They rounded another corner, Eragon's limp seeming enormous next to Poena's smooth stride, and a new doorway appeared before them. Poena, hand still resting upon Eragon's shoulder, swung the door open and practically shoved her prey across the threshold.

It took Eragon longer then he had hoped to regain his balance. His bare feet had become tangled in the ragged end of a maroon rug, causing him to stumble yet again and throw out his arms to catch himself on a nearby chair. His head throbbed from the sudden and unstable movement, and he wished for nothing more than to sink right then into the soft leather armchair before him. But instinct and impulse spun him back around to face the witch still standing in the doorway. Her eyes glinted mischievously at him. "Graceful, Rider." She sneered.

Behind him, Eragon heard someone snicker, and he noticed for the first time that they were not alone in the room. Another woman was lounging casually on the couch, clad in the same red leather as Poena with eyes of steel and hair of midnight that reminded Eragon suddenly of someone sincerely important to him, yet he could not place who it was. Like a member of a dream long forgotten. He began to think of pine needles and emerald eyes, random glimpses of emotions and memories he could not recall ever having.

The woman sat sideways on the couch, one leg draped tantalizingly over the lap of a red haired man. His impossibly green eyes sparkled dangerously in Eragon's direction, and a sick look of delight cross his face at the sight of the torn and tattered Dragon Rider. Momentarily, Eragon was frozen by the fact that there were more of them. He had never truly thought about it, yet he had never seen another creature like Poena. The knowledge that she was not the only one—that there could be hundreds of them, living in secret away from society—pressed against his chest like an iron band.

"Leave us." Poena commanded. The other Rysam tossed her ebony bangs from in front of her eyes and took the man's hand in hers. They rose in a single fluid movement, like their contact made them one creature rather then two, and glided from the room. The man wrapped an arm around her slender waist as he flashed a smile at Eragon, who simply stared in fascination and horror at the scars and burns that lined his exposed arms and neck.

As they vanished from the room, Poena slid the door shut sharply behind them and turned to face the still dizzy and confused Rider. She laughed callously at the expression in his face and eyes with a shake of her head. "Take it all in, little Rider. We call him a _rysekes faktos_, the Trainer's Pride. That, if you are lucky and live long enough, is what you will someday become. A fully pledged and qualified trainee. Now sit."

She motioned roughly towards a table in the far corner of the room. A number of chairs gathered around it in a sort of semicircle, a large window with the expanse of the Hadarac desert serving as the backdrop running along the remaining edge. The sight was beautiful and terrifying all at the same time, deadly and captivating like everything else here Eragon had experience.

Yet nothing up to that moment had captured his attention so inventively. The table Poena was now situating herself at was stacked high with the most amazing thing Eragon had seen in a long while. Food. Actual food; not the stale bread and molding cheese that had served as his sustenance over the past three weeks. There were bowls of fruits, platters of vegetables, dishes of seasoned meats and mushrooms, none of which Eragon believed could have grown out here in the hottest place in Alegasia. There were pitchers of water and carafes of what he could only hope to be deep red wine, though he doubted even these monsters were as vicious and grotesque as to drink pure and straight blood.

The Rider made his way, as if in a trance, towards the table, reaching out to see if the mind he knew was already falling apart had finally turned on him and created the most beautiful and unobtainable sight for him to lay his eyes on. But the feel of the grapes was real enough. The taste of the apple was as genuine as Eragon needed it to be. And the smell of that warm meat, chicken and beef and pork, was tantalizing enough to cause Eragon to forget his suspicion and think of nothing more then the feast he was about to tuck into.

But suddenly the meat platter was stolen from his sight by Poena, who fixed him with an amused, twinkling eye. "Oh, no, Eragon, I'm afraid your digestive system is not quite ready for roast beef yet. Anything too complex and your enzymes won't be able to break it down, leaving me in the unfortunate situation of having to explain to the king that his newest soldier _ate himself to death—_in a matter of speaking."

Eragon had already forgotten about the meat thought, his attention now focused on the tray of freshly baked bread and even more grapes. He laughed through a mouthful of bread once she finished speaking. "You strive so hard to create a level of objectivity towards your trainees, and yet you could have just sent better food to my cell. Why is that, Poena?"

The witch leaned back in her chair and dismissed the question with a wave of her hand. "Trainees are to be hurt, not answered to, so save your questions, Rider. Though I do have one of my own that has been troubling me for some time now." She reached for one of the decanters of wine and poured herself a fair amount, swirling the contents around a clear goblet. "I have watched you Eragon," She began slowly, still studying the pattern of the churning liquid. "I have watched you as closely as any trainer should, and I can infer that you are much further along in your training then you let on to be." Suddenly she was glaring inquisitively across the table at him, wine glass forgotten. "So why is it that you still refuse to call me Mistress?"

Eragon cocked his head to the side, as if the answer to the question that should be so painfully obvious to her must have a deeper explanation if she had to ask. But the only reasoning he could come up with was that, "Well, when you love someone, you don't call them by their title as if they are so impersonal to you. You call them by their name. Isn't that a common understanding?"

Poena raised an eyebrow and leaned back, once again, in her chair. She was quiet for a moment, observing the being now examining a stick of freshly steamed carrots across the table from her, before muttering, "You're much further along then I had calculated. How interesting. The never-ending heart did its duty."

The Rider paused half way through a bite of carrot and looked at her with his eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean the 'never-ending heart'?"

Again, Poena avoided an answer by taking an elegant sip of her wine. Eragon chewed slowly as he waited for any form of response to his question. But Poena seemed to be no longer in the room. Her icy eyes had become soft and distant, as if imagining the future or remembering a pleasant past event. "Yes—" She said slowly to herself. "_Much _further along then expected. I wonder—it may be time for the final trial—"

**_

* * *

_**

The elf and human pair slid across the sand dunes of the Hadarac Desert, heads bent low as if to hide from the possible glare of Du Fells Nangoroth. At the news of their closer then imaginable proximity to their target, both experienced the same burst of adrenaline and anxiety. Arya hid hers successfully, having been well trained in concealing her emotions at a young age, yet Roran's face betrayed his sudden nerves.

Like a scene from a reoccurring nightmare, his mind replayed, with every horribly precise detail, his first and last meeting with the woman who had managed to floor his cousin, the great Dragon Rider of the Varden, with a single touch. He could not pretend it didn't scare him senseless the ease with which she had defeated them, the self-assured way in which she carried herself, as if she'd never lost a fight. And he believed it. If Eragon, his admittedly stronger, more powerful adopted brother, was so quickly overcome by the witch, what chances did a farm boy with a hammer have?

Yet he had forgotten their secret weapon, the sleeping dragon who lay like her own little dune in the hot sand. True, Saphira wasn't exactly a secret, for everyone in Alegasia must know of her by now, but she was the only advantage that they had over the Rysam that Roran could find. He even doubted Arya would be a match for them alone. Suddenly he hoped the elf wasn't looking into his mind at the moment.

Saphira looked more peaceful then she had been over the last three weeks. Her enormous belly swelled with each deep breath and her blue scales sparkled in the sweltering sunlight. Arya almost felt reluctant to wake her, knowing the dragon was running off only adrenaline and spare fumes, yet she knew that the longer Saphira was left in her magically induced sleep, the more dangerous she would be when she woke.

Tentatively, Arya stepped forward and knelt beside Saphira's giant head. She placed a delicate hand on the dragon's forehead and, with a deep breath, muttered "_Vakna._"

It happened instantly. Saphira's azure eyes clicked open, a fire flashing behind them like blue lightening. No trace of sleep could be seen in them, only pure and untainted anger. Both Roran and Arya jumped back as the dragon rose to her feet with smoke streaming from her nostrils. She looked equally as murderous now as she had been peaceful before.

Saphira towered over them, spreading out her wings so as to be as large as possible, intimidating Roran into taking another tentative step backwards as the puncture marks on his arms seemed to flare up again. But Arya remained where she was to stare impassively up into the dragon's lethal eyes. Roran thought for a moment that Saphira would simply open her jaws and engulf the elf in a ball of flame, and was almost tempted to run forward, grab Arya, and drag her out of harms way.

Then Saphira snapped her neck down till her fangs were only mere inches away from Arya's face and growled in a voice that would have made any soldier of the Empire drop his arms and scatter. _HOW DARE YOU USE YOUR MAGIC AGAINST ME, ELF! AGAINST MY WILL! I COULD TEAR YOU APART WITHOUT A SECOND THOUGHT. _

"Yes, Saphira, I do not doubt that you could." She replied calmly to the seething dragon. Her composed tone only brought a greater snarl to Saphira's lips, who looked as if she were highly considering it at the moment. "However, perhaps you would like to hear of Eragon's location first."

Saphira froze mid sneer, lips still pulled back to reveal her dangerously sharp teeth, but her eyes had suddenly transformed from murderous to a look of intense worry. It was a horribly beautiful clash of emotions. Then her wings folded back to her side and she threw her head up, as if expecting to see her Rider hiding behind one of the sand dunes preparing to jump out and surprise her, but he wasn't there. _Where is he then?_ The ferocity was still evident in her voice, but now so was an intense fear and anxiety

"We believe he is being kept in Du Fells Nangoroth. I could feel a mass of some type of life hidden away in the rocky towers, and it is the hottest and most untempered with location in Alegasia; the perfect place for the Rysam to build their new life."

_Then let us go to him. _Saphira was already crouched down, her enormous belly scrapping the desert sand, so as to allow her passengers onboard.

"Yes, a moment though." Arya turned to Roran and, with a look of deep yet composed meaning, announced, "We left the packs over by that other dune. Accompany me to get them."

Having personally seen Arya shoulder her pack before returning to wake Saphira, and knowing that he had left his pack by the sleeping dragon before, Roran was momentarily confused. How many packs did they bring? But then she gave him another sharp, green glare. _Come with me. _Roran winced as the elf forced her way into his mind, although, admittedly, it was not heavily defended. With a final glance at Saphira, who was craning her neck towards Du Fells Nangoroth as if she could see her Rider if she simply angled her head a certain way. Before she could notice that both packs were already there, Roran slipped after Arya, who had already begun to walk away.

"I highly suggest we don't keep her waiting long." Roran muttered as he caught up, at a run, with the long-stridden elf. "She may finally snap and decided to take on the Rysam all on her own. Although, in the state she's in, I would probably wager a few crowns on the dragon."

"Stop your rambling and listen to me, Roran." Arya turned harshly on him. He was almost taken aback by the look in her eyes. They were hard and serious, and yet graced with a hesitance he had yet to see in the elf's refined features. Roran quickly snapped his mouth shut.

"I was doubtful as to whether or not I should tell this to you, and especially to Saphira, but if we are to go up against the Rysam now, you must know. The Rysam are very specific and professional at what they do, which is most likely why Galbatorix has hired them to capture your cousin. They call it training, but it is more like torturing into obedience."

Roran's features hardened at her words and his teeth began to unconsciously grind. He knew something of that sort must be going on wherever Eragon had been taken, but to hear it spoken out loud and with such finality and bluntness was near unbearable. Arya raised a hand as he began to speak and closed her eyes in determination. "Please Roran, I must tell you this now before we go. They are masters at hurting and manipulating their victims into doing as they wish, and, to add insult to injury, they somehow manage to manipulate their victim's emotions and feelings, creating a false level of intimacy between trainer and trainee. It is like a fictitious, yet all-consuming love that strips you from cognitive thought and instinct, basically shred away everything that makes up your own being. We elves haven't a clue as to how they manage to do it, nor do we wish to imitate it.

"However, what I am trying to explain is that, over the past couple weeks, whenever I have been given the chance, I have tried to scry Eragon. Scrying someone is a form of—"

"Yes, I know what scrying is. Eragon used it once to show me Katrina." He said impatiently. "But you've been watching him all this time and did not think it might be important to tell me? He could feel his anger and frustration towards the elf begin to mount. How dare she keep something like that from him!

"I did not tell you because most of the time there was nothing to tell. Even as limited as the Rysam's use of normal magic is, they can still manage to block me out. Rarely have their defenses been down long enough for me to catch more then a mere glimpse of certain scenes. However—" Here she hesitated for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Roran to notice her lack of eye contact. "on those rare times that I was able to see Eragon properly—I did not share it with you because I did not like what I saw. But now it seems necessary to explain, because this will decide whether we succeed or fail in this rescue."

She took a deep breath before continuing. "No one can resist the siren-call of the Rysam. Not even a Rider. I'm afraid that Eragon has fallen too far into her trap already, in which case this offensive cannot be attempted."

"Wait one moment. Are you trying to say that if, and only if, Eragon _has_ fallen into a 'false level of intimacy' with that witch, that we will not be rescuing him? Fallen or not, I am bringing my cousin home—"

"That is noble, Roran, but I'm afraid that if what I have been seeing is true, if he truly is within the emotional control of the Rysam, then there is probably not enough of your cousin left to bring home."

**_

* * *

_**

"The final trial?"

There had been a short pause between Poena's first announcement of the idea and Eragon's question where the Rider had waited tolerantly for her to elaborate. However, when the witch simply continued to stare almost longingly out into the distance, as if imagining a wonderfully horrible scenario, Eragon's curiosity overcame his patience. At the question, Poena seemed to snap out of her musings as if only just noticing there was another being in the room.

"Yes, the final trial." And as she said it that familiar glint passed over her eyes and Eragon's instinct began to flash with warning, though he had learned to ignore such impulses. It told him that she was excited, and when she gets excited that usually means the _miccio _will follow not too far behind. "The final trial is the last test you will take to prove whether or not your training is complete. It is a test of faith, loyalty, and love, and it is, oh, so _very _horrible."

Her voice dipped into a low, seductive whisper at the end and her finger tips became a faint shade of neon blue. Eragon watched them with a desire to both run far away and hold onto them tightly with his own. The overflowing trays of food sat deserted on the table, for Eragon was satisfyingly full for the first time in weeks and her ambiguity concerning the trial intrigued him.

"What does the trial consist of so I can better prepare myself?" He asked, leaning forward almost unnoticeably in the direction of the sorceress.

Poena raised a thin and beautifully arched eyebrow and laughed darkly at his question. "Oh, Eragon, if I told you then what good is the test? To have time to mull over your future actions would counter the importance of seeing what you choose on the spot. _That_ is the true test presented through the trial. _I _do not even know yet what it will be – although I do hope it reveals itself to be as satisfying as my trial."

Eragon felt his mouth drop and quickly snapped it shut, but he could not hold in the exclamation of astonishment. "_You_ had to undergo the final trial?"

Again, the witch laughed and tossed her long, golden braid back over her shoulder like a rope. "Why, of course. How else do you imagine I came to be a Rysam? We are not born with our tremendous powers and attraction to pain. We were all human once upon a time."

"But how is that possible?" Eragon could not understand it. Everything he had learned before from instructors he could no longer name and recognize told him that another race of beings living in Alegasia was impossible, and now that he was beginning to accept that the humans, elves, dwarves, urgal, and, now, dragons were not alone, he had to turn around and accept that the Rysam were not entirely a race at all. His head, which had already been throbbing from the gash along his hairline, now reached a piercing pain, but he ignored it with growing tolerance. "How can it be that you were born human and yet have not a trace of humanity within you?"

Suddenly, Poena was no longer laughing. Her eyes became dark and icy once again and she glared down at the Rider before her. "Is that so, Eragon?" Her voice was low and dangerous. "Am I so deprived of humanity that I can no longer experience human emotions of determination, hurt, and need?"

"No—I—I didn't mean humanity in—"

"No, it is alright." But her clipped tone told him otherwise. "You wish to understand how it is I came to be this way—how any Rysam has come to be what she is—and I will tell you.

"Yes, I was human once. My name was Glorianna, but that was so very, very long ago that the name has lost its meaning. I remember the Age of the Riders, where Dragons flew like moths throughout the land, so many and yet so glorified. Helantra, Glorianna's mother, used to tell me how she hoped I would one day grow to be the wife of a Dragon Rider, and how much happiness it would bring to the family.

"And what a 'perfect' little family Glorianna had. Her father, Lorgan, owned and worked a grain mill near present-day Narda. I used to sit out there as he worked the grinders and watch with my little human eyes as the Riders would fly from across Alegasia to Ceunon and back, imagining their glory and beauty. My little human mind believed that the Riders would never allow anything to happen to her and her family. I was eight years old.

"But the Riders were not always there for us, and I learned that very, very harshly. One night, across the sea, came the witches of Vroengard, and they attacked our little village. Helantra was slain, being too old for training, Lorgan was beaten unconscious and left in the burning rubble of his home, and I was taken far away across the sea. And not a fang or wing or Rider's blade did I see come to our rescue.

"I do not regret what happened that night." She said quickly, and she lifted her chin as if to prove her point. "That was the day my life began. I ceased to be little Glorianna and became Poena. But it was not easy. You believe your training is intolerable? Imagine six years of it. Everyday and every night. The transition was agonizing, and yet the reward far exceeded the pain.

"One night they came for me and brought me to a room I'd yet to see. 'We found him in a gutter', they told me. And I looked down on the beaten and dirty face of Lorgan, a face I'd kept in my head all six years. How weak he looked laying on the floor, how pathetic, pleading with my sisters for mercy and to let his 'little girl' be free.

"And then they told me the truth of how I came to be in Vroengard. They told me how Lorgan's mill was broken and he had neither the means nor money to fix it, which then lead to the family falling close to poverty. I did not know of this, for I was too young and fragile to be told such things. In desperate need of money to feed his wife, Lorgan struck a deal with my sisters; He'd give his only daughter over for her 'education' in exchange for enough crowns to fix the mill and keep his farm alive.

"In other words, he sold me. Like a common slave for a few gold pieces. And when I heard and saw his kneeling on the floor before me, insisting it was not so and lying about how he had loved Glorianna, I felt a rush of steely anger the likes of which I doubt you've ever felt. And I took the sword from my sister's waist and plunged it through his chest."

Her voice had risen to a crescendo as she spoke the words, her eyes becoming narrower and narrower and more terrifying to watch. And then suddenly they softened, and when she spoke again her voice wavered slightly, almost unnoticeably. "He died right there in my arms, and I didn't know whether to feel relief, regret, or remorse. Now tell me again that that is not human enough."

There was silence. Eragon could think of nothing to say, but knew he could never declare that she was void of humanity again. After a few moments of the uncomfortable quiet, Eragon slowly reached across the table to where Poena's hand sat by her empty plate and placed his hand on top of it. Poena glanced up into his eyes with surprise, and he tried to make them look as sincere as possible and he ran his thumb gently over her wrist.

"I'm so sorry." He said slowly. "That must have been extrem—"

But Poena let out a sudden growl and grabbed hold of the Rider's wrist with the speed of a snake, and held it in a vice-like grip. Blue sparks ignited from the tips of her fingers and engulfed Eragon's. The agony spread like wildfire up his arm, into his chest, and throughout his entire body. His head felt on the brink of exploding with the pain.

His legs gave out as he screamed in sudden anguish. His eyes screwed shut in hopes of blocking it all out. His back arched and he desperately tried to writhe away from the source oh his misery, but the witch held tight to his wrist and kept him up. Vaguely through the pain and his own screams, he heard her speak.

"_I do not need your pity, Rider._" She hissed with unprecedented venom. "_No Rider has the right to look down on me with sympathy_!"

She released his wrist and the fire stopped, but the embers continued to burn throughout his body. Eragon fell like a ragdoll to the floor, his head striking the leg of the table on his way down and upsetting the jug of wine, which crashed to the ground beside them. He trembled with the aftershock of the _miccio _and could barely breathe enough.

Poena glanced at the broken shards of the wine pitcher and let out a puff of breath like an angry horse before turning her eyes back to the Rider still twitching slightly on the ground at her feet. Slowly, she walked over to him and knelt beside his head. Eragon tried to shift away, but she placed a heavy hand upon his chest, directly above his heart, and bent down to whisper in his ear. "I think I am growing weary of your company, Rider."

There was a glow of blue as the hand above Eragon's heart ignited. Eragon gave a strangled yell, his back arching off the ground for a mere second of pain before collapsing back down again, knocking out the last of the air from his motionless lungs.

TBC

_*sigh* Finally, it's done! Well, this chapter, at least. However, there are, unfortunately, only and two or three more chapters, plus a short epilogue, before the end _=( _Hopefully you all don't think I've been dragging it on too long._

_Coming up next, Arya and Roran will attempt their siege on Du Fells Nangoroth, but will they succeed? And what will they find? (Felt like being dramatic and leaving you all a little something to think about in the meantime. Cheers!)_

_Oh, and don't forget to leave a review! _


End file.
